Mother of Horsemen
by Rociriel
Summary: Chapter 26 up. The story of Readfah, the legendary and immortal 'Mother of the Rohirrim.' Rating may go up for some chapters.
1. Chapter One

Author's Notes:  
This work could be called LOTR and the Silmarillion canon only. So,  
if some of the things I write don't mesh with Tolkien's other writings,  
call it AU for those writings only. I haven't read them, though I would  
some day like to. Right now this story begged to be told, so my apologies  
for inaccuracies. I welcome feedback of all kinds, but I would rather  
not be harangued. Writing Fanfic should be fun, and if I give myself a  
migraine the fun would end.  
My take on Tolkien's world is that there are rules, yes, but the best  
stories are the ones where the rules are broken...by the characters.  
Feanor is a prime example!  
With a few exceptions, I have decided against using elvish and other  
"foreign" expressions, with regard to my own comfort and that of my  
readers. In this first chapter, however, I have used dialect to underscore  
the differences in speech patterns, which will soften in time, just as  
Shaw's Eliza Doolittle only spoke her first few lines phonetically.  
Without further ado, may I present my first fanfiction effort.  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter 1  
  
The smell of death was nothing new to them, but a hint of it, borne on the   
late winter wind into the valley, was enough to cause a stir among it's   
inhabitants. They had fled here to escape death, and all the memories of   
too-recent battle.   
  
Elves lived there then. They hadn't been there long, for the river-carven  
cleft between the forested ridges was a welter of tents and other temporary  
shelters of brush and sapling. The only sign of permanency in this maelstrom  
of disorganization was a bathhouse of logs and a crude outline pegged for  
the foundation of a house to be built when time permitted. Piles of stones   
set here and there indicated that the work had begun, though if any had   
thought to ask for details of the finished product he would have been met  
with blank stares. Truly, haste had been their only constant in the past  
months.  
  
Heads popped from tent flaps as the smell grew stronger and acquired   
complexity. Not only the death smell, but notes of old sweat, rotten fish,  
and other layers of more indefinable foulness mingled and invaded the air.  
What had been a murmur rose to a babble, hands gesturing to the North,   
when a horse and rider appeared at the ridge above the falls.  
  
The horse was unlike the few they had salvaged from war. It was far taller,  
with a hawk-like profile much different from the dish-faced, silk-skinned   
animals they rode. Its coat was a curious color; deep red with white hairs   
sprinkled evenly throughout, like frost on grass, and it's clean, hard limbs  
were white past knees and hocks. Almost the whole front half of its head was  
white, and its large, intelligent eyes were blue.  
  
One thing only could be attributed to the rider, apart from the smell, and  
that was boldness. Not knowing or caring what kind of encampment this was,  
the rider unhesitatingly guided the horse forward into the clearing. No   
real judgement could be made as to the species or sex of the rider, muffled   
to the eyes in primitively tanned furs against the chill, though it might be  
guessed that it was an Elf, as the horse bore no saddle or bridle. The bow   
and quiver were decidedly of Mannish make, the former wrought of horn, sinew  
and horsehair, the latter of the boned and hollowed head of a strange   
variety of deer, hung from the shoulder by a strap of it's own skin. Its   
eyes, mouth and nostils were sewn shut and formed a repository for flint   
arrowheads and tools, while the animal's neck held arrows shorn of dark wood  
and fletched narrowly with white feathers.  
  
"Foddo-chel-ck! ck!" a gritty female voice muttered, as if in answer to  
their unspoken questions. "Fodd-d-do-chel! Ck! Chchchch!" Sounds like that  
of a clucking bird accompanied the words. The eyes behind the rim of fur   
flickered to and fro as if searching for something or someone, and nothing   
of interest had as yet drawn her gaze or arrested her progress though many   
had gathered to watch her pass.  
  
For, underneath the filth and despite the strange speech, there was an   
undeniable look of nobility about her. She bore herself erect. When she  
pulled back the hood of the strangely cut fur garment, there was a   
collective gasp, for what appeared to be Noldorin blood showed clearly in  
the chiseled cheekbones, prominent despite the roundness of her face. Her  
matted hair was dark russet, with rough braids hanging before each flared  
ear and the rest hanging in shaggy, uneven lengths. Her nose was a bit   
convex, but small, and her eyes, though grey, had an undertone of green   
like the spruce-clad ridges towering above the valley. She was shorter  
and heavier than any Noldo, however, and her skin had a rosy hue strange  
for any Elf.  
  
She paused perforce, as one of the larger tents impeded her. At that  
moment raised voices came from within and a tall figure emerged from it,  
stupid with sleep, tying his long dark hair into a queue. His evening-grey  
eyes widened and his fine nose narrowed at the same instant the stench hit  
him full force. He looked up in astonishment.  
  
Elbereth! he thought, does she carry a rotted carcass behind her? At the  
same moment he was struck again. I have seen that face before.  
  
She met his eyes with a spark in her own, and what might have been called  
a smile had it lasted longer than a heartbeat.  
  
"Seen me? I think not." Her voice was deep and whispery, as if disused,  
and the accent was rolling and foreign, and at the same time strangely  
familiar. Only the Green Elves ever clacked and chirruped in that  
squirrellike way, but the Laiquendi did not hunt, and seldom if ever used  
horses. And, he thought, his eyes watering, they are a cleanly folk.  
  
She allowed a corner of her mouth to twitch upward a second time.  
  
"You'd stink too, if you lived on fish and washed in bear fat a t'ousand  
year. Nothing but snow up there."  
  
He was speechless. Could she read his mind?  
  
She laughed then, a dry sound, but her eyes twinkled. She tapped her head  
and shook it, then circled her face with a graceful motion. "Face gives  
your thought away." Without waiting for him to ask, she said, "Fish go  
away, bear too. Everybody starve or go away. So I come back." She looked  
around her."You have food, maybe?"  
  
He signaled to one of his aides to bring food, and discreetly thumbed  
toward the bathhouse where another nodded and went inside to stoke the  
fire.  
  
She dismounted, and for a brief moment the smell was worse. She looked  
around her at the tents, the piles of stones, and at last at the curious  
Elves who had gathered, still at a healthy distance upwind. She turned  
back to this one who was apparently chief of his tribe, and bowed with  
surprising formality.  
  
"I am Readfah. Mother's people were Men of the North, yellow hairs with  
many horses. Father elf. Both dead long time now." She peered closely at  
him for a long, uncomfortable moment, meeting his eyes with no pretense  
to subtlety.  
  
"You half and half too, eh?"  
  
Stunned, he could do nothing but nod. He looked around him helplessly,  
as if expecting someone to come to his rescue, but at last he turned back  
to her, finding his manners.  
  
"I am Elrond." 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's notes:   
I was so nervous about posting the first time I forgot to post the usual   
disclaimers. I'll say it this way, if it's a familiar name, it's the   
Professor's. If not, it's mine.  
Thanks for the reviews!  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter 2  
  
Elrond watched Readfah scrape the remnants of her third bowl of stew into  
her mouth with no surprise. His sense of surprise at anything she said or   
did had been mercifully blunted after her matter-of-fact assessment of his   
ancestry. For several moments the only sound had been that of a starved   
animal gobbling its dinner with singleminded greed.  
  
They had had no trouble convincing her to have a bath, for she was anxious   
to be clean. So anxious that she would have stripped naked on the spot, but  
for the gentle suggestion of Leithel, an apprentice healer, that it would  
be warmer in the bathhouse.  
  
Moments later there roared from that structure a volley of Nandorin curses,  
so riddled with chattering squawks it sounded like a henhouse complete   
with ravening fox. Elrond jumped to his feet and ran, at the same time that  
Leithel fled outside and stood panting and wild-eyed. Apparently one did   
not lay hands upon the newcomer without her permission, sobbed the gentle   
healer.   
  
"That knife...I thought she was going to...all I did was offer to wash   
her back!"   
  
Elrond shuddered. Readfah had shown him her knife, the handle formed of a  
section of antler she had called a "shovel." This was a piece that fanned   
out from the handgrip to the size of her outspread hand, ending in a series  
of bony hooks twisting this way and that, as deadly as it's queer, angled   
steel blade. He comforted the trembling woman for a few moments, muttering   
something inane about cultural differences. After she had gone, he frowned   
deeply at the bathhouse and wondered what, exactly, was inside.  
  
  
Readfah emerged an hour later, smelling of herbs and wearing a long white   
tunic most of the Elves normally affected as winter nightwear in times of   
peace. None of the women's clothes fit her through hips or bosom - in that,   
she was obviously her mother's child. One of Elrond's aides had put   
together a piecemeal wardrobe for her from some of the larger things in the   
salvage pile, including a grey woollen cape and a pair of russet leather   
boots. The malodorous fur garments she had arrived in were steeping a few   
hundred yards from camp in a vat of wood ash and water: the ruined fur   
would slough off, but the leather would remain and be workable. She would   
not suffer them to be thrown away, nor for her bow, quiver and knife to be   
touched at all.  
  
Perhaps the oddest of all was the behavior of her horse. The tall, hawk-  
faced roan mare would not leave her side, and stood vigil by the bathhouse   
the entire time her mistress was within. She would have followed her to   
the fireside had not Readfah turned and spoken to her conversationally for   
a moment. The mare even then did not join the other horses in the pastures   
above the cliffs next to the camp, but turned and walked over to an area   
not far off where the snow was thin, and began nuzzling and nipping the   
frosty stubble. Now and again she would turn her gaze toward the fire as   
if to say, "I am here." The mare's name was Wimowë, which was, in Readfah's   
mother-tongue, "Loyal."  
  
  
  
  
Elrond had tried to ask a few polite questions as Readfah ate, but abandoned   
that idea when he discovered that she did not hesitate to talk with her   
mouth full. She was already hard enough to understand. Her Sindarin, which   
they all spoke now, was fluent enough, but so punctuated with clicks and   
throaty noises most of the elves who had gathered to meet her had to strain   
to make sense of her words. Listen they did, however, and with growing   
fascination.   
  
Some of the stories she told them made them uneasy, particularly that of   
her mother's seduction by an elf - Noldorin, if her appearance was any   
clue - for she steadfastly avoided further mention of him. Then she startled   
them all by pointing to the very spot where Eärendil's star appeared   
mornings, telling them she was born "the same day the new star came."   
Many of them thought that had to be some sort of omen, but for good or   
ill no one could guess. They all spoke to her for a while, but at a look   
from Elrond that signified that he wished to speak with her alone, they   
drifted away.  
  
When he was sure Readfah had finished eating - he had guessed as much, as   
she had stopped licking her fingers - he threw a few more sticks on the fire   
and sat back casually. The late afternoon sun had dipped behind the   
treetops, but it was not yet uncomfortably cold; Elrond and his followers   
had early learned the secrets of how to manage fire most efficiently.   
  
"Readfah," he began at length, "you spoke of coming 'back' here..."  
  
"Mmm..." she nodded, scrubbing her hands and face with a bit of snow. "Tribe   
of Green Elf people lived here, all up and down river, until Dark One woke   
up again."  
  
She swept her arm toward the top of the eastern ridge. "Kept my horses up   
there. Had many. When trouble started, found mother's folk, gave all horses   
to them. Lame ones, weak ones, ckckckck!" She drew a finger across her   
throat. Elrond winced and she looked at him in wonder. "Many starving, then.   
Eating horse better than eating dirt, eh? Green Elf people wouldn't eat   
horses, ran off to find silly fruit. Many never come back." She stared into   
the fire with a stony expression for a moment. "Then I went to Ice Country.   
Dark One not bother up there."   
  
Elrond couldn't help himself. "The Green Elves...were they your father's   
people?"  
  
"No," she answered shortly. "He was one who came in the big ships."   
  
At that Elrond's heart hammered a few beats with the shudder of recognition   
he had come to expect since the moment he first saw her.   
  
The silence went on a tick too long for comfort. Elrond shifted his position   
slightly, leaning into the fire to disguise his reddening face.  
  
"I live with Green folk after mother die," she continued. "Her people..."   
here she struggled to express herself "...become afraid, when I die not.   
Say I should live with Elvenfolk. How did you come to take the Imlad Ris?"   
  
"The what?"  
  
"The Imlad Ris. This valley. Narrow, steep, good hideout. Green Elf people   
came here after floods."  
  
"We found it by chance, mostly," he admitted. "We had far too many losses.   
We needed..."  
  
"A hole to hide in," she finished, and Elrond grinned in spite of himself.  
  
"I never knew the place had a name," he cocked his head to one side, the   
dark queue falling over one shoulder. "We've just been calling it 'the   
valley.' Celeborn...that's a friend I hope will return soon...came here   
first, and we scouted it out together later. We were in luck, we didn't have   
to take it from anyone. So, this was your home?"  
  
She nodded. "Many hundreds of years. Longer than I stay in Ice Country.   
You are all soldiers, then?"  
  
"We have had to be," he answered swiftly, even a little defensively. To   
someone like Elrond, the glory of war would be only in its end. He was a   
capable and fearless leader, but he hated every moment of battle. Not many   
knew it, but his fondest dream was to sit beside a brook with his feet   
dangling in the water, enjoying a warm breeze and getting a delicious   
bellyache from eating too many ripe peaches. He had done that once, as a   
child, and as with most memories the pain was muted and the pleasure   
intensified with the varnish of time. Time. Now, all his time was occupied   
with giving orders, taking orders, stitching and blood and comforting and   
burying. He sensed, rightly, that Readfah was no more interested in war   
than he was. She had spent most of her life unashamedly avoiding it, and   
for a moment he envied her.   
  
He caught himself talking disjointedly about battles and treachery, about   
the relentless wars that had led the pitiable remnant of the High Kindred   
to refugee in this deep, well hidden vale of the Bruinen. Imlad Ris, he   
mused, turning the words silently on his tongue, his silver eyes softening   
as dreams took over. No, it was not really a war camp. It was, as she had   
said, a hole to hide in. A place to recover and rest, and in time, if   
peace ever came, a home. He looked over at her - she was asleep. Of course   
she was, he thought, an amused glint replacing the mist in his eyes. There   
was no better way to put someone to sleep than to provide a full belly, a   
warm fire, and a dry lecture. He sat back and sighed, thinking, as was his   
wont, of the past. The familiarity of her profile needled him. Who of the   
Noldo could have taken a Mortal woman that way? Or would have? He shrugged,   
but the question still teased. He looked at her again, and felt a sudden   
wash of remorse for allowing her to lie in the snow while he sat captivated   
by his own thoughts. He rose, lifted her into his arms, and carried her,   
still asleep, into his own tent and closed the flap behind him.  
  
  
  
Readfah sat bolt upright on the narrow cot as if wakened by a nightmare,   
sucking in her breath and looking about her wildly. She groped for the   
knife. Panic set in when she did not immediately find it and she thrashed   
toward the thin line of light at the tent flap. Ripping it open, she   
squinted and relaxed as the disorientation ebbed. I've been asleep all   
night, but where? There was Wimowë, barely a stone's throw from the spot   
she had left her. She looked back into the tent. There were the clothes   
she'd been given; no dream, then! And there was the knife, placed next to   
the pillow as if someone had known how she would wake. The bow and quiver   
were hung reassuringly on pegs within her sight.  
  
She closed the flap against the cold and inspected the clothes. Will I ever   
get used to flax and wool again? she smiled. Nearly a thousand years of Men   
have passed since I have worn anything but leathers. Then again, it had   
been that long since she had had a horse beneath her, and all she had   
learned as a child came back after the first day.   
  
The horses of her childhood had been little more than ponies. The majority   
had been used for food by the tall. yellow-haired herders, though a few   
were trained to pull baggage-laden poles from place to place. The thought   
of riding them, or regulating their breeding, had never occurred to them   
until the Noldor returned to Middle Earth and established realms among   
them.   
  
The immortal stallions that had come from Aman with them were swift,   
invariably white, and few. By Readfah's time, many had fallen to war and   
orcish depredations, and if any were left alive it was a well kept secret.   
No secret, though, that they had indelibly left their stamp on the native   
horses. Accidentally or by design, they bred with the mares they found   
(or were introduced to), and though the foals were mortal they were   
infinitely superior. No mares had come from the Blessed Realm, for the   
first thought of the Exiles had been for war, not for matters of husbandry.   
But the tribe Readfah was born to gave thought to these things, first of   
all Mortal Men to do so.   
  
For many long years the arts of horsemanship eluded them, for the Elves   
who possessed these skills had little patience with what they deemed the   
clumsiness of Men, and scorned them when they did not learn quickly. But   
Readfah could and did, and over time taught the tribe the arts in a way   
they could learn. Saddles, bridles, and other like equipment were the   
result of her dedication, and evolved into relative sophistication before   
she went to live among the Laiquendi. In the same span of time she learned   
the secrets of farriery from the Elves and taught them to Men, to whom the   
art of ironwork was old, but the idea of shoes for horses was new. As for   
breeding, Readfah made a study of that as well, and within a few human   
generations the animals were uniformly taller, heavier, sounder and swifter,   
and with better disposition. The development of separate herds of dray   
animals and ponies was also her doing, something even the Elves had not   
considered. And, too, the tribesmen long thought that when Readfah was   
among them in the leaf-fall season, that the large amount of an especially   
tender and succulent meat she provided for their feasts was magically   
produced. If they had thought to look carefully, they would have seen that   
it was meat that only stallions could supply.   
  
  
  
Her mind came floating back into the present. She garbed herself in the   
unfamiliar clothes, marveling at their lightness and warmth, and went   
outside. It was still cold, but she could sense as all Elves could the   
greening under the melting snow. In a week or two it would all be gone and   
the trees would appear to be wreathed in yellow-green smoke. As she watched,   
a squalling cloud of birds thundered high overhead, heading North, swirling   
and diving like a swarm of bees. Readfah reveled in the pleasure of the   
oncoming Spring.   
  
Looking around her, she sobered quickly. It had to be even harder on the   
fully Elven, to have the joy of the stirring season subjugated to the   
demands of war. Always, the Firstborn were pulled to the rhythms of Arda,   
always there was the struggle to remain in the present when dreams and   
memories could invade one even while open eyed. Mortals who experienced   
the pale shadow of this phenomenon were called woolgatherers and daydreamers;  
Elves who did not walk the line between both worlds were thought to be ill.  
  
  
  
  
Everyone seemed busy at one task or another, and the one called Elrond was   
nowhere to be seen, so Readfah talked to Wimowë, then vaulted onto her back.   
She rode but a little way out of the camp, and not up out of the valley at   
all. Once the falls had not been as high, the pool beneath them not as deep,   
and the river was fed by countless tiny springs dotting the valley. But the   
world had changed, and trees she had known were dead, and springs dried or   
gone underground, and new trees had come and gone and new springs rose in   
different places. Different birdsongs came on the faint, cold breeze than   
she had ever heard, along with some familiar ones, while others she only   
noticed because they were no more.  
  
Wimowë had a long, swinging stride that covered ground smoothly and swiftly.   
Readfah looked down at her with approval. She had only acquired the mare two   
months ago, having come out of Forochel on foot. Though she would not have   
chosen to travel in winter, her timing couldn't have been better. A small   
band of horsemen had been sheltering in a patch of woods on their way   
South, and her first thought was to take a horse from the herd while they   
slept, for the men were large and fierce looking, and she wanted no   
bloodshed. But, while she stood watching them from far across the downs,   
the roan mare had whinnied excitedly and galloped straight towards her.   
The men roused themselves, prepared to fight thieves, but the small single   
figure set them at doubt. For long minutes they watched each other, and no   
one moved but the mare, who trotted up to Readfah and blew the steam from   
her nostrils into her face. When Readfah reciprocated, the mare nodded   
vigorously and stood still.  
  
The men began talking among themselves as Readfah started toward them, the   
mare following at her heels. When she came close, fully expecting to be   
challenged, they upset her calculations entirely by falling on their knees   
as one and bowing their heads to the ground.  
  
They offered her the mare without even being asked, and Readfah, never one   
to question good fortune, accepted. Her confusion was compounded when they   
finally raised their voices above a whisper and she heard them speaking what   
sounded much like her mother's tongue, and among the flow of words she   
caught her name several times.  
  
"Yes, I am Readfah," she had said, and they bowed again. This made no sense,   
so she smiled, thanked them for the horse, and rode away. It was to be   
many lives of Men before she ever fully understood what she had seen in   
that hour on her way to the Imlad Ris.  
  
  
  
  
She heard many excited voices far off, as she rode back to camp. At an   
unspoken word, Wimowë broke into a relaxed gallop until the tents came into   
view. Many horses were clustered on the path, with many elves in armor   
beside them. One of them was Celeborn, a tall elf with silver hair and a serious   
expression. He was talking to Elrond in a voice barely above a whisper.  
  
"Now we shall see if this thing Gil-Galad spoke of is worth it's salt,"   
he was saying."All we can do is wait and see. If not, we shall be like   
rats in a cage. They are too close. It is nowhere near over!"  
  
Elrond looked up and spotted Readfah, but there was no time for   
introductions. Seeing her made him think of the horses. The horses that   
had not been ridden to battle now grazed on the plain east of the valley,   
and he had mentioned that to her yesterday."Readfah! The horses! You   
know where they are..."  
  
The silver haired one grabbed his arm. "There is no time! The protection   
surrounds the valley only. It would be death to ride for them now!" He   
stared up at Readfah with the same shock of recognition Elrond had   
felt. "Who..."  
  
" I need not ride!" Readfah interrupted. Wimowë snorted and danced to one   
side, her head lowered, baring her teeth and snapping. "Yrch, my   
friend. You know the smell, eh?" She looked eastward, eyes following the   
narrow path up into the hills.   
  
She threw up her head and suddenly the valley was filled with her voice,   
her tongue vibrating at the back of her throat, which was like unto the   
war call of the Northern horsemen. The newly come elves cried that she   
was mad, that she would draw the enemy to them. But she sent the cry up   
twice more, then was silent.  
  
There was the sound of a great thundering, as if a storm hovered over the   
cliffs. No one spoke for long moments, until Celeborn said, softly,   
"Look at that!"  
  
First one, then a dozen, then a hundred horses streamed into the valley,   
and Readfah rode to meet them lest they wreak destruction in the camp.   
Pawing and snorting, they gathered around her as if they knew her and   
loved her, and she spoke to them, and straightaway they were calm and   
put their heads down to search for grass. And she was again lost in her   
dreams, and did not hear Elrond calling to her. 


	3. Chapter Three

Author's notes:  
I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I will plead the excuse of graduation week, and I, like Elrond so long ago, am dealing with TWINS. I promise lots more juice and detail next week.  
To the purist, this chapter is probably full of 'historical' inaccuracies. I did the best I could with what   
I had, and even online research proved faulty at best, with Gil-galad in two and Celeborn in three   
possible places as this chapter opens in the stirring season of 1698 S.A. . Anyway, this is really Readfah's story, and I can tell you with fair certainty what SHE would say:  
  
"Rules? In a knife fight?"  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Three  
  
  
  
Ereinion Gil-galad did not, at first glance, look like a king. Most of his officers were taller than he, and Elrond himself towered over him by almost half a head. The glittering armor he wore made him seem larger than he really was. Neither was he as fair of face as most elves; grim lines framed his mouth and his features were sharp and fox-like. Only his bearing marked him as king - only his eyes marked him as one of the Firstborn. In those wise eyes lay his full share of the beauty of the Eldar. Deep, dark grey, and shining as if set with stars, they were Elvish indeed, and just now they rested on Readfah.  
  
His troop had ridden in on the heels of Celeborn's, many of them wounded, often riding two   
to a horse, weeping with relief as they scrambled to safety of the valley below. The enemy did not follow them, the first wide-eyed arrivals jabbered, but seemed to lose sight of them as they neared the cliffs. Healers flowed from the tents in trained precision to tend the wounded, who tossed and mumbled with waking nightmares. Raised voices, shouted orders, cries of pain and the screams of terrified horses created a hellish din.  
  
Readfah did not at first hear Elrond calling. She had been distracted by the arrival of   
his horses, but she at last snapped out of her trance and turned to see still more of them   
pouring down the Western cliff-path. Wimowë, anticipating Readfah's command, wheeled and   
galloped back to where they gathered, and Readfah slid from the mare's back almost before she   
had stopped, staring in wordless horror at what she saw. Wounded horses, some with flanks flayed apart, orc-arrows throbbing, jutting from bleeding holes, some dragging limbs, some slowly dying where they stood among those merely frightened and exhausted, pleading with white-rimmed eyes and weakening nickers for mercy. Readfah muttered a curse and drew her knife...  
  
Moments later, eleven horses, their throats brutally laid open, lay dead before Elrond's tent. The shocked elves who saw her stood in silence, all asking the same question: "Who is she? By what authority does she slay our horses even in mercy, and handle the rest as if they belonged to her?" Sheathing the bloodied knife into the ground, she threw them all a contemptuous glance, knowing their thoughts and caring not. She began tearing the face-plates and armor from the other animals and casting all of it into a pile.   
  
"Worry not," she told one soldier who had barely opened his mouth in protest. "Yours has no wound. Rest you."  
  
On she labored until, at a nod from Gil-galad, a few of his soldiers undertook to aid her. She thrust   
a pail into one pair of hands and, ignoring the indignant sputters, instructed their owner to   
find a horse making water and catch it, then set it on the fire to boil for a healing ointment. The young elf, one of the King's Captains with his rank insigne barely tarnished, looked at his liege in mute appeal. Gil-galad only nodded again, mouthing the words, "Do it."   
  
"Who is she?" he nudged Elrond, his eyes, never leaving her, alive with interest despite the uproar   
around them.  
  
"I know little but her name, liege, and that is Readfah," Elrond replied. "Her mother was a 'Rochellon' of the North, her father..."  
  
"...from the look of it, was one of us," Gil-galad finished wryly. "Hmm. Say, my friend, have you any to drink besides water in this place? Even a draft of ale would do."  
  
"No ale, but we have a good store of wine. Healers make fair medicines as well as foul, as we both   
know." They laughed at that, and Elrond called to a passing esquire and sent him to the stores for a full wineskin.  
  
He had to turn to hide the sudden displeasure in his face as he saw Celeborn approaching. He did not really dislike the tall elf of Doriath, but he knew that he would not give any of them a chance to catch their breaths before he would be chafing to call council. Every army had to have its sticklers, he supposed, and he reckoned Celeborn was theirs.   
  
Gil-galad, briefly diverted by the arrival of the wine, now turned his attention back to Readfah, who was seated on a log by the fire, staring into the pail of horse-water, as if willing it to boil faster.  
  
"At any rate," Elrond was saying as Celeborn came up, "She seems to know a great deal about   
horses." He realized the words were unnecessary as soon as they left his mouth, for even Celeborn   
grinned.  
  
"Your pardon, sir," he began after a pause, while Elrond hid a smile. "But there are many matters to be discussed ere we..."  
  
Gil-galad knew there was but one way to deal with Celeborn, and that was bluntly. "We will go into all those matters anon, my good friend, but I need rest. Another drop of wine would not be amiss either." He raised the mug to Elrond, who still absently held the wineskin. He glanced back at Readfah, who studied the simmering pail with an air of absorption. He smiled a little and turned his back on her to go into the tent, heedless of her sudden, baleful stare.  
  
  
  
  
"I know not how it works, but that it does," Gil-galad was saying, hours later, when he called council. "I cannot offer any more than to say that we are safe here in...Imladris," he ran the words together, as Elrond had done when telling him of the name. " There are barriers here, and in the realm of milord Celeborn, whose lady wields a similar ...gift. I will answer no more questions on this matter, for in truth, I know little more than what I have told you."  
  
They had crowded into Elrond's tent, which, despite the addition of two extensions, was still full to overflowing with thirty of the King's officers, and Readfah, who was there at his request. She sat most unwillingly on Elrond's cot directly opposite Gil-galad. Her face was rather too carefully neutral, thought Elrond, who had not known her long, but knew her well enough to know that she was very seldom neutral about anything.   
  
"As to the matter of the horses..." Gil-galad's voice rose but a fragment of an octave, yet enough that any whisperings were silenced. "I am satisfied that what was done, and what is being done, is for the best. You will advise all your troops that the lady..." here he hesitated. The name was quite foreign to his tongue.  
  
"Readfah," she said raspily.  
  
"Readfah, will have complete freedom to do as she sees fit with any of our horses."  
  
"Cook and eat them would be best," she muttered.  
  
"What say you, lady?" Gil-galad's eyes glowed dangerously.  
  
"I said, cook and eat them would be best!" her anger, which had been seething nicely all day, erupting in his face. "Spindle-legged..."  
  
"Those horses, madam, are descended..."  
  
"Ai! You speak truth! Descended! Come down, mean you? Pretty enough horses! You ride to war, not to picnic!"  
  
He blinked, enraged at his own silence as well as her withering appraisal of his cavalry. She strode forward until she stood over him. It had been said of Gil-galad that he could look down his nose at someone even from a seated position. Now, he merely looked as though he was trying to maintain his dignity.  
  
"I work like bee for hundreds of years to make good horses. Give to man, give to elf, what do I ask? One to ride, maybe? So what happens? I come back to find all good horses back with yellowhairs, and elf-soldiers on pretty white ladies' horses! Silky mane get you out from under yrch sword? Pretty face bite yrch bellies out for you? You need good horses, king, horses like my Wimowë. You see what happen with wrong horses! Soldier die, horse die. Not made to fight! You give me time, you will have good horses fit for army!"  
  
Gil-galad stood up to face her. "And how do you propose to do that?" he demanded. His voice had gone deadly soft, and those who knew him knew he could have cheerfully struck her.  
  
"Ah! Do I ask how to get good soldiers? No. I trust you because you know war business. I know horse business. You trust me."  
  
She stalked out of the tent. Accustomed as he was to deference, if not diffidence, Gil-galad so far forgot himself as to pursue her - at least as far as the tent entrance. Then, realizing too late what he had done, he stopped, inhaled sharply, and turned back to the rest of the company who sat tense, silent, and amazed.  
  
"Whatsoever she tells you to do, in the matter of horses, see that you do it, " he ordered crisply, knowing full well he had just been trumped, and he left the tent with no further word.  
  
  
  
Readfah sat astride Wimowë among the other horses, out of sight of the camp. She had made a rash promise to the High King of the Elves, and she knew it, but she was determined to keep it.  
  
What she planned to do no one would countenance, least of all Elrond and Gil-galad. She would be leaving the Imlad Ris tonight, and she would be taking, without permission, all the best horses. She would have to ride hard and swiftly, and brave more dangers than she had ever been used to. Once she had known this land as well as she had known her name, but all was changed. When she came back, the valley might be empty again, or full of enemies. But she had chosen to come back to a life seasoned with risk rather than live the lonely existence of the Ice Bay a day longer. A thousand years of Men she had fished, hunted seal, shot click-deer and great white bears, made clothes from their hides and tools from their bones, and lived in mud houses, or those made from blocks hewn of snow. One day, during a bad time when the game had simply disappeared and the dour people of Forochel, as was their custom, did the same, she had felt the pull to go back to the green country. She yearned to ride horses again, and to see her people, no matter the danger. And just like that, with the clothes on her back, her weapons and some food, she began to walk.  
  
And now, though she appeared idle, she was at work, studying the merits and flaws of the Elvish herd. Thinskinned and delicate, yet enduring and intelligent, they were not useless, merely not suited to the climate or the uses of war, and they were too small to carry armor. There was but one use for them, and that would be in breeding herds, to refine the coarseness out of the native stock. If all went well, the herdsmen of the North would be happy to acquire such fine animals in trade, but if not, they would find themselves bereft just the same. Beg, buy, or burgle, Readfah would bring horses fit for an army to Gil-galad. 


	4. Chapter Four

Author's notes:   
  
The identity of Readfah's father is no great secret, but she herself knows little of him - she was raised by her mother - and the timespan between her birth and his death is unclear, so-o-o, for this story, I am choosing to say that Readfah was a child of about ten when she last saw him, and they did know each other though they did not live together.  
His name will be mentioned for the first time in the next chapter. For those of you who have read the books carefully and know who he is, do keep mum, and those who would like to take a guess, keep it to e-mail for the sake of those folks who like surprises. :)  
For those who care about such things, Readfah's knife is the Elven version of a Ghurka blade, which is angled much like a boomerang.  
I will continue to update on Fridays. Stories seem to get buried fast, but it will be there!  
Please keep reviewing, and thanks!  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Four  
  
  
Elrond lay awake, staring hard at the tent wall, as he had every night for almost two months since Readfah's abrupt departure. He knew his followers blamed him for the loss of the horses, though on the face of it they mouthed words of regret and sympathy, he knew their true thoughts. Traitor! Deceiver! Thief! He felt the words ringing in his ears as if they had been spoken aloud. He tossed and groaned, and sat up to find Gil-galad, seated on his own cot, watching him.  
  
"Elrond," he began, "you must stop blaming yourself. We were all fooled."  
  
"I think she will come back," Elrond insisted, though in his heart he was sure of nothing.  
  
"I think not. She deceived us..."  
  
"She did not lie!" snapped Elrond, though the fabric of her possible deceits enveloped his mind like a web, he pushed it away impatiently. " I believe she will come back. She would not lie to me."  
  
The emotion playing across Gil-galad's face changed from anger to pity. He had just returned from the Gulf of Lhûn, where another of his officers, Círdan, maintained yet another haven of safety. To his vast disappointment, Elrond had done very little in Imladris in his absence. An air of lassitude hung over the valley, and the soldiers, though healing well, spent too much time in idleness. Even the piles of stones remained untouched, as if Elrond had lost interest in building the house he had long dreamed about. He was thinner, too, and bore the look of sleeplessness that his mortal blood made sharper than if he had been all elf.  
  
Gil-galad's voice was soft with wonder. "You are in love with her, aren't you?"  
  
Having never been in love, Elrond looked up him with a haunted expression. "I know that something changed...in here..." he placed a hand flat on his chest, "the first time I ever looked in her eyes. I thought I was one of those few who would always remain alone, but now, I don't know."  
  
Gil-galad was silent for several moments, and his hand passed over his face and into his long, wavy black hair in a gesture Elrond knew of old betokened deep frustration. "You must try to forget her," he said at last in a voice full of sympathy.  
  
"Surely you see how I have tried!" Elrond rose and stepped to the tent-flap, his fine brows knit into a deep V and his eyes darkened. "Even should the worst come to pass, it will not change my heart."  
  
"You are in the same predicament I am in, Elrond. You are a leader of your people. You cannot always follow your heart." Gil-galad sighed, dreamt for half a moment, then faced Elrond again. "Have you seen the blade she carries?"   
  
That question was unexpected, and Elrond cocked a quizzical brow at him. "Of course. Why?"  
  
"I do not mean the handle, but the blade."  
  
"What of it? It's an odd shape, but..."  
  
"You did not see the proofmark near the haft?"  
  
"I never looked that closely. What of it?"  
  
"It's a Valinorean "M" rune. The blade was made by Mahtan...I know because Celebrimbor had one exactly like it. The last time I saw him alive," Gil-galad lowered his voice, " the night he gave me the rings, I saw it hanging, as if an object of reverence rather than use. I asked him about it. It seems Mahtan disapproved of the forging of weapons, but he knew that anyone could have use for a brush chopping tool or even something to use for defense while hunting dangerous game, like boar. The shape also makes it, coincidentally I am sure, ideal for beheading one's enemy at close range."  
  
Only by a clenching of his teeth did Elrond betray his feelings. He still had waking nightmares where the roar of wind from dying horses' severed throats, the spray of hot blood, and the flash of polished steel arcing from the downswing of Readfah's arm made him sweat.  
  
"Mahtan only made seven of those blades, Celebrimbor told me. Naming-day gifts for his grandsons," Gil-galad went on earnestly.  
  
"She is innocent!" Elrond felt like a fool to still so insist, yet he did, wanting to believe taking the place of believing.  
  
"Our horses are gone!" Gil-galad shouted. " This place is falling apart! Are you so besotted that you can forget what she has done of her own accord, let alone whose blood she may carry? You are no stranger to treachery! Celebrimbor died because he believed blindly in something. I would not see your fate follow his!"  
  
"Nay," Elrond said heavily. "I do not forget, but Readfah is not Sauron."  
  
"Yet her designs may serve his, even unwittingly."  
  
When Elrond did not reply, Gil-galad looked up at him, his sharp, bright eyes searching his friend's large and luminous ones."If it is any comfort, I hope I am wrong. I liked her - quite well. She had...nerve. But I cannot waste time or make decisions based on hopes and neither can you. We must do now on foot what we had hoped to do with cavalry, and we have precious little time to do it. I need your help."  
  
For a long moment, Gil-galad was certain that Elrond would turn away, but instead he sighed, nodded, and prepared to join him. "For," he said with a small smile, " whatever Readfah may be doing right now, it is most assuredly not sitting on her hands. It shames me that I have done little else."  
  
  
  
  
Up through the shadows of the Hithaeglir came Readfah, riding until Wimowë was lathered and the other horses, who had nowhere near her stamina, were past exhausted. She fully expected to be pursued, for Gil-galad, she had surmised, would not take kindly to what she had done.   
  
"Good king," she thought, "with bad side."   
  
There was a scarcity of orcs, which was of course all to the good. The day before, she had bypassed two small bands of them, traveling East. They either hadn't noticed her or had decided one miserable elf wasn't worth getting their heads chopped off. She had swung into a tree on that occasion and waited until they passed, loosing the horses from the mental bond with which she had drawn them, just enough so they appeared wild. Wimowë, of course, insisted on remaining at the foot of the tree in spite of the barrage of chitterings and scoldings raining down on her.  
  
When she was sure that she was not being followed, she slowed the pace, though they moved constantly. Two weeks it had taken to reach the open downs West of the Atan-mere* range, where she had met the herders who had given her Wimowë. Her persistence was rewarded, for all along the windswept grassland was fresh sign of horses: hoofmarks, grazed areas, droppings, bits of hair caught on sawtooth grasses. Within another day, she thought one morning, with luck, she would smell cook-fires, and with the best of luck she would be welcomed as she had been before.  
  
Much later, just past sunrise, she became aware of the sound of heavier hoofbeats far behind and to the right of her, maintaining the same jogging rhythm as the herd. Moments later, another set of hoofbeats joined them, this time to her left. Betray no fear, she thought half aloud, betray no fear. She did not feel that she dared to look behind her where yet another set took up the cadence. No mistake, she was being set up for ambush, the would-be attackers not knowing of her keen hearing. Wimowë began to dance a little.  
  
Suddenly the horses swept left and galloped across the downs at her unspoken word, and there was a cry of surprise from several throats over a rise of ground further ahead. Readfah swung her bow from her back with a war-cry, which to her shock, was answered. She turned and beheld three riders, with looks of consternation on their faces, their great horses wheeling and confused. More reassuringly, they were big, yellow haired men, one looking heartbreakingly like the man her mother had wed when Readfah was still young. It was worth the risk, she decided.  
  
"Wes hael!" she called.  
  
Several more riders, all mounted on horses Readfah coveted on sight, rode up. "Wes hael!" she called again, with as much cheer as she could muster. They stopped, looking at her and each other with undisguised wonder. A fierce looking warrior with flaming blue eyes and a long golden beard rode straight up to her.  
  
"You are a woman? Show me! Uncover yourself!" he shook a spear at her, chin jutting forward in an attitude of challenge.  
  
This order, given in any other tone, might well have been refused by any lady, but the spear he wielded was large and sharp. Readfah pulled back her cape and hood and submitted to his brash scrutiny. He stared at Wimowë a long time, too. Then he backed his horse several steps.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"I am called Readfah."  
  
The men fell silent at that, and the long-bearded one stared a while longer. Then, he rode up to her again, and without warning, reached out and gripped her arm.   
  
"You are real," he said, as if he expected her to contradict him.  
  
Readfah looked as startled as he did. "Of course I am!"  
  
He let go and backed away again, eyes still fixed on her face. "Why have you come here?"  
  
"I need horses."  
  
He looked at the Elvish herd. They had stopped running and were looking back at her.   
  
"You have horses."  
  
"Mmm. Not the kind I need."  
  
He stared again, then called out to his men. "Bréalaf! Ux! Ride ahead and prepare a place for us to break fast." Then he turned to Readfah. "You will join us." It was not a question.  
  
  
  
  
Readfah sat crosslegged by the fire and watched as the strapping young fellow called Ux prepared the meal. It was simply strips of some kind of salted and smoked meat, probably boar, cooked in an iron pan, and large slices of bread fried beside it. Readfah was handed her plate first, and was offered a bowl of honey to dip the bread in. It looked as though it had been dipped into many times before, and she very nearly refused, but then reasoned that it wouldn't do to offend them, and that if she could eat the 'givvik'** of Forochel she could well-nigh stand to eat anything. Her own manners may not have served her well at a High-Elven court, but they were refined beside those of the yellow haired men, who washed their food down with great drafts of foaming ale and belched freely, wiping their faces on their sleeves, telling jokes and laughing loudly.  
  
The long-bearded one was called Thúr, and the horses belonged to his clan, of which his father was chief, but was now too old to ride far from home. The other men were his kin, and it was their custom to trade stallions with other herds every two years. If they accepted her offer, it would mean not only a welcome infusion of new blood, but much less work. Readfah forebore to tell him that the stallion trade had been one of her earliest teachings.  
  
Once they knew she was no enemy, they accepted her company as casually as if she had been an old friend. If they thought that there was anything strange about a woman traveling alone, they never said a word about it. Readfah knew that there were other tribes who would have raped her as a matter of course, or at the very least attempted to rob her, but these men were the children of her mother's people, a tribe where women had been respected and were often chiefs of clans. No doubt, their idea of her being a horse spirit helped. They knew very little of elves, but accepted cheerfully what she told them, and pressed upon her another mug of ale.  
  
She then told the story of the elf warrior Gil-galad, who had come from a far land where the horses were fair, but not big enough. These are some of his horses that you see here, she said, and grinned at the thought of the outraged look on Gil-galad's face if he could have heard her. Fine stallions, she said, knowingly. Put with mares like yours, the foals will be even more graceful and swift than the ones you have now. Right now, we need many horses like yours, to train for war, and perhaps if we win, to breed finer ones yet. If you will help me, I will give more horses than I take.  
  
Bréalaf, the one who looked so much like her mother's husband, considered her words carefully. His voice was deep and quiet, as her stepfather's had been; it was plain that he rarely spoke without thought. "We have horses we would trade with you, but we have not enough. There are other herdsmen who have the kind you seek, but I cannot say they will be willing to part with them."  
  
"There is one thing I could try," she said conspiratorially, and with eyes ever widening, the men listened to her plan.  
  
  
  
  
And so, Readfah embarked on her career as horse thief. If a herdsman was willing to trade, the trade was made and no further action was taken, but, if he proved stubborn or worse, disrespectful, she would ride along the outskirts of the herd as if going home, and one by one, the horses she chose would simply leave off grazing and fall in behind her as obediently as sheep. In the same manner, the horses she had brought to trade would drop back and stay behind.   
  
It never ceased to amaze Thúr and his men, who swore to all who would listen that this was 'the' Readfah, the one of whom the tales told, and that she could do anything with a horse. In one village, where the trading had been good, she joyfully watched pale-haired children showing off on their ponies for her, but then was moved to tears by a group of women who excitedly led her to a shrine next to the common well. Inside a small stone grotto there stood a very old, well-wrought sculpture of a woman with clearly elven features, astride a great horse, her hand lifted in benediction.  
  
  
  
  
At night, when the stars were out, they sang ballads and told tales, and seemed to take the greatest pleasure in concocting ridiculous falsehoods about their own exploits for amusement. Readfah innocently asked the meaning of the phrase "fish story" and they whooped with laughter. It seemed to have less to do with fish and more to do with battles won singlehandedly, amounts of ale drunk, and numbers of women courted than anything else.  
  
Through Midsummer they traveled from place to place, most of the time obtaining horses lawfully, but sometimes not. They didn't always get away with it. Once, Readfah had to endure the indignity of having an arrow removed from her backside by the ever-versatile Ux, who immediately afterwards proposed marriage to her. Through their roars of laughter, the other men warned her not to say yes; for she would never be sure whether Ux felt constrained to propose for having breached her modesty or because he was impressed with the roundness of her bottom. Readfah blushed deeply, Ux did the same, and the matter was not mentioned again.  
  
  
  
  
There came a dawn when Readfah knew she had lingered long enough. With a pang, she realized that she probably would never see these men again. She sat long, watching as they slept, knowing she was doomed to be forgotten. Not by these men, or their children, perhaps, but their grandchildren, in just a few short years, will have thought of her as yet another of Grandfather's tales. There was nothing she could do about it, either. Readfah had accepted this state of things long ago, and being among men always left her sad in the end. Yet, she felt a pull towards them, and that was her fate.  
  
As she had slipped quietly from the Imlad Ris, so she rose to leave before they woke. Having nothing else to give, Readfah drew an arrowhead from the click-deer quiver, and braided a few of Wimowë's tail hairs to form a necklace which she placed around the sleeping Ux's neck. Smiling at his innocence, she kissed him very gently on the cheek.  
  
"Remember me," she said, stroking his long golden hair, and wiping away a tear at the thought of his honest proposal. Her first. She closed her eyes with a wave of warmth stealing over her. She bent and kissed him again, on the lips, then swiftly left the circle of firelight.  
  
She swung aboard Wimowë, who seemed to be waiting expectantly for her, and the new herd of warhorses followed them through the waving grass into the shadows of the mountains.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gil-galad sank back onto his cot, groaning. "I think milady Galadriel has designs on me."  
  
"What?!" Elrond looked up in shock from the herbs he was sorting, just saving a parchment full of seeds from spilling.  
  
They had received word that Galadriel was taking advantage of the warm weather and the absence of orcs on the paths between them to visit Imladris. Though Celeborn had protested weeks ago, when she had first proposed the trip, for reasons of safety, she sent couriers ahead to apprise (Celeborn had used the word "warn") them of her imminent arrival.  
  
"Oh, not for herself, of course, but for the daughter."  
  
Elrond quirked a brow and went back to work. "Mmm...I've never met her."  
  
"I've only seen her once," Gil-galad groaned again.  
  
"What's the matter? Has she Celeborn's face?"  
  
Gil-galad stared at Elrond, still bent over the trays of seeds and deliberately avoiding his eyes. But he could not help pulling the corners of his mouth down and raising his brows which mimicked Celeborn's habitual expression so mercilessly that Gil-galad roared with laughter, something he had not done for far too long.   
  
Hiccoughing, he wiped his eyes. "Nothing so dreadful! Celebrían is much her mother's daughter, though her hair is far lighter. Grey eyes, small figure, really lovely, but deadly solemn, and quiet.And there is the matter of kinship. Nothing unlawful, Galadriel would not go that far, but it is a bit close for my taste."  
  
Elrond shrugged. "She may prove a foil for you."  
  
Gil-galad snorted."You sound like a statesman! A bed shared in silence would not be to my liking! I think the girl was afraid to talk. She has likely never been far from her mother's knee."  
  
"Wait a moment! Bed? Has she actually opened negotiations with you?" Elrond was horrified. Even among royalty, Elves had always done their own courting.  
  
"No, not really. But I suspect she would like nothing better than a contract."  
  
"Something is strange about all this," Elrond sat back, looking pensive. "I didn't think Galadriel liked you all that well."  
  
"She does not," Gil-galad sighed. "She liked me even less when Celebrimbor actually listened to her and gave me two of the rings. I'd say she's cursing herself for suggesting it. She really expected to be given all three, which he was about to do - hard to believe considering how she treated him. That's what this is all about, you know. The rings." As usual he lowered his voice when talking about them. "She has the idea that she can trade her daughter for some control over the ones she gave up. Apparently, if the rings are used in concert, they are more powerful. And you know, she is as ambitious as it is possible to be. I am grateful she is an ally, and she is powerful in her own right, but she is a - difficult - friend."  
  
Elrond smiled sourly at the uncharacteristic understatement.   
  
"Does she know you gave one to Círdan?"  
  
"No, and I wish she didn't have to know. I may not have the greatest gifts of diplomacy, but I do have some," he grinned ruefully. "Círdan would immediately tell Galadriel what she could do both with the ring and her daughter, and we would end by warring among ourselves."  
  
Elrond found the whole business distasteful and was glad he was well out of it. He far preferred reading to fighting, and the science of healing to the art of politics.  
  
"When is she arriving?"  
  
"The couriers got here an hour ago, so I imagine she will be here this evening."  
  
Elrond scowled but said no more. Gil-galad closed his eyes drowsily and for a few moments there was no sound but the distant splash of the falls and the flapping of the tent walls as a warm breeze stirred. From up above the falls, a bird called insistently, its throaty vibrato growing louder with repetition.  
  
Gil-galad sat bolt upright in time to be showered with thousands of tiny seeds as Elrond jumped up with an intake of breath and flew out of the tent. "What is the matter with you?" he growled.  
  
He followed Elrond at a much slower pace, still shaking seeds out of his hair. Elrond was just standing a few steps in front of the tent, mouth open, and tears flowing soundlessly. Gil-galad looked up and blinked hard. There, coming down the falls path in single file, were many horses. Big, tall, hardboned warhorses of many colors, with faces like eagles.   
  
  
  
  
"You would be angry and say no either way, ask, not ask," Readfah smiled at Gil-galad, who could not forbear to smile back. "So, I take them. Many of new ones are mares with babies inside. We will have many more soon."  
  
She spoke with difficulty, for Elrond could not be persuaded to stop hugging her. He stood behind her, his arms around her shoulders, his chin on her head, grinning like a puppy.  
  
"Where did you get them?" demanded Gil-galad, gazing up in awe at his new mount, a huge black animal who bared his teeth at him and nodded. Readfah had insisted that instead of choosing the horses that appealed to them, that the soldiers adopt the horsemen's custom of walking among the herd and allowing the horse to choose. This menacing-looking creature had already bitten Gil-galad twice, but would not leave him, and stood nearby as if awaiting orders.  
  
"He did not mean harm," Readfah said airily, when the king swore and glared at the horse, who raised his head and looked sideways at him in the horse equivalent of hearty laughter. "He wants you to pay attention to him. Now, king, there is a horse that will make you feel like warrior!"  
  
"Doubtless," drawled Gil-galad, trying to reconcile himself to a horse with a sense of humor that matched his own. "But, you did not answer my question. Where did you get them?"  
  
"Long story. Traded with Men of North for some. Others..." she let her voice trail off.   
  
"You stole them?" Elrond spoke up, amusement in his voice, while Gil-galad's jaw dropped and his mind raced at the thought of war with hordes of angry Northern warriors.  
  
"Some might say yes," Readfah shrugged, gazing out onto the new herd. She watched the new bonds being forged with the elves who wandered among them, with a deep sense of satisfaction. "But no. I cannot steal horses. You see," she turned to them with a warm smile that made her beautiful, "they are all mine."  
  
  
  
  
They walked back in time to see a commotion near the tents.  
  
"By Varda, she's here!" Gil-galad whispered.  
  
"Who is she?" Readfah stared as a strikingly lovely elf-woman with hair like light itself alighted from a small, fine-boned grey mare. "Is that Queen?" she asked, her voice low with admiration.  
  
"Nay," Gil-galad said quickly. "That is the lady Galadriel, milord Celeborn's wife. The other is their daughter, Celebrían."  
  
The latter was helped from her horse as her mother had been. As Gil-galad had said, she was very tiny, with hair like polished mithril. She looked around her, her large eyes timid as a deer's.  
  
Both women were attired in elaborately embroidered grey gowns, trimmed in silver. Their hair had been coiffed for the trip, under silver nets. The officers of their retinue were clad in vermeilled armor overlaid with the arms of the House of Finwë, and bore golden shields. Readfah had never seen such splendid clothing, and hung back when Elrond and Gil-galad urged her forward.  
  
Galadriel turned to greet them, and her smile froze. There, between The high King and his vice-regent was the face of an old enemy, in the shape of womanhood to be sure, but the old hatreds and horrors still burned as if fresh. Celebrían's quavering "Mother?" went unanswered save for the single word, "Kinslayer!" which issued from Galadriel's mouth like a serpent's hiss.  
  
  
  
  
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* Atan-mere, -mereth, lit."where men feast," fig. "hunting grounds," later the Ettenmoor range of mountains. So named by elves, as one of the many places where Men awoke in Middle Earth.   
  
**"Givvik" from the Inuit "giviak," a delicacy prepared by skinning an entire seal through the mouth cavity, and stuffing the remaining blubber-lined bag with fully feathered, ungutted young auks which are killed by crushing their hearts with a thumb. This whole business is left to ferment several months, and is offered most usually to honored company. The birds are eaten, whole and uncooked, innards and all, directly from the seal. 


	5. Chapter Five

Author's notes:  
Reviews, my friends! I live for them! If you know someone who enjoys this type of fic, do tell about it. I am no Dwimordene, or Isabeau, or Altariel, but I am trying.   
I welcome constructive critique. If there are any passages you like, or hate, tell me. I welcome e-mail.  
OK, I'm through with the begging. (Not really! Review! REVIEW!)  
Some questions will be answered in this chapter. I feel I should restate that this story is following canon, as closely as my shockingly bad memory will allow, from LOTR and the Silmarillion, so yes, eventually some sad things are going to happen.   
Enjoy!  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Five  
  
  
  
Galadriel stood like a stone as they approached, effectively keeping the hysteria roiling inside her from reaching her severely perfect features. If she had not done so, she reasoned, Readfah would likely have attacked her. It was clear that any upbringing worthy of an elf was hardly to be expected in the daughter of a renegade.   
  
As Gil-galad had said to Elrond, he had some mastery over the art of diplomacy. "My Lady Galadriel," he began, working very hard to keep his own face straight. "Allow me to present Readfah, my new horse-mistress." Just enough emphasis was laid on that last word to jolt Galadriel's eyes back to his, if only for a brief, annoyed flicker. Gil-galad would find something to amuse him if an orc were eating him alive, she thought. Is he truly blind?  
  
Readfah confounded Galadriel's expectations by greeting her with a precise bow more regal than anything she had seen since she had left Valinor.   
  
And so, he taught his whelp manners, Galadriel thought. Perhaps not so surprising after all. They all had breeding, once. She returned Readfah's formal courtesy with a cold nod.   
  
She then addressed Gil-galad, carefully screening the emotion from her voice. "And where is milord Celeborn? I thought to greet him."  
  
Gil-galad was about to plead ignorance, but Readfah spared him.   
  
"I will fetch him, if you like. He is with new horse," she said. She bowed herself out of the group and was away with all speed.  
  
Elrond found that he had been holding his breath for some reason, and made the effort to exhale slowly. Galadriel's face was stormy, and she was demanding a private audience with the king, and her demand seemed to include Elrond, too. Celebrían, who had not spoken a word, not even when her elders had omitted to include her in the introductions, seemed to sense that her presence would not be required, and quietly announced that she was very tired, and would like to rest a while and greet her father later. The ladies' tent had been erected and equipped before their arrival, and she had soon gone to sleep. Elrond wished, not for the last time, that they all could have done the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
"At this late date I fail to see how it matters," Gil-galad swept his hand over his face, trying to keep his temper.  
  
Galadriel turned on him, her gown rustling sharply. "Fëanor spelled all his sons! And Celebrimbor was ample proof that the curse of his reckless, foul temper followed even unto the next generation! How do we know it does not follow her as well?"  
  
"She has done me a great service, and though I once had the same fears as you, they rest, now."  
  
Galadriel paced away from him, then turned back, her face white. "Did 'they' ever rest? Did her father ever cease to hound and to slay his own?"  
  
"And who was her father, lady? There were, after all, seven sons!" said Gil-galad sarcastically.  
  
When Readfah returned and stood framed in the tent opening, with Celeborn beside her, Galadriel could contain herself no longer. She swung on Readfah, thrusting a finger accusingly at her.  
  
"Can you indeed look at that face and deny whose seed sired it?" she cried, her pent-up fury breaking at last."Can you? Only one son of Fëanor had the fire of Nerdanel in his hair, and only one had eyes like those! Well I remember, too, escaping that crooked blade, as too many of my kinfolk did not!" She turned to Readfah, and added, cruelly and unnecessarily, "And well we all know, Maedhros took no wife!"  
  
"Galadriel!" a sharp shout arrested them all.  
  
It was Celeborn who spoke, and they turned to him in amazement, for he never raised his voice. Before he could say more, Readfah turned and ran from the tent. Elrond started to say something, thought better of it, and contented himself with a soft, deadly "Ai...!" before following her.  
  
"There's a pretty sight," Galadriel's lip curved up scornfully. "T'is well! The misbegotten should comfort one another!"  
  
"Have you, then, become a servant of Sauron?" Celeborn took a step toward her, and she looked up at him in renewed shock.  
  
"Sauron? Are you mad, to speak thus to me?"  
  
"Nay, lady, my only madness was in my silence! We have spent our lives at war with him. Is it inconceivable that we could become infected with his spite? For that was spite in your voice. You dealt with Celebrimbor son of Curufin readily enough, because he had something that suited your purposes, even though his works may yet turn to evil. Yet, you feel free to spew hatred for an innocent who has done more good than ill, and she is no more heir of Fëanor than Celebrimbor was! Could it be that you see no advantage to be gained by her friendship? Or that you despise her for no better reason than Maedhros stood unmoved by your beauty? Could it be simple envy, the kind one feels toward another when she perceives a strength in the other that she herself possesses not?  
"Think you long, wife, on who your true enemies are! I speak as one who loves you, yet I have seldom seen as unworthy a display as I have witnessed of you this day!"  
  
Celeborn strode out, leaving Gil-galad gaping like a fish. All those words! Galadriel did not bother to excuse herself, but followed Celeborn out with a queer look in her eyes, leaving the king to ponder what had just happened. Perhaps it was the first of many such long-overdue outbursts on the part of his most serious and hardworking officer.  
  
And then again, he thought, perhaps it is best to speak but once in a thousand years, and speak to the purpose.  
  
  
  
  
"Readfah! Wait!"  
  
"I wish not to talk now!"  
  
"Then I won't talk."  
  
"I wish not to be squeezed either."  
  
"I won't. I promise. Just don't leave, please?"  
  
"And why you want me to stay? Now you know, you should hate me too."  
  
"No! I knew your father. You remember how I told you about how I lost my parents, and about your birth-star. I was just a boy, but your father's brother, Maglor, raised my brother Elros and me. Maedhros came to see us sometimes," Elrond concluded desperately, when it looked as though she would break into a run to escape him.  
  
Readfah stopped, and turned to him in wonder, and her voice was very small, "You knew my Ada?"  
  
"Yes. Not very well - I was a little afraid of him. He was often in a foul mood and argued with Maglor a great deal. But sometimes, when he had been gone a long time, he would seem almost happy when he came in. But always, the bad feeling would come back and he would leave in anger." Elrond's heretofore dim memory of Maedhros' face was clearer now, and Readfah's was eerily like the handsome, fire-shadowed one that he remembered from boyhood. The sardonic arch of her right brow when she was puzzled or annoyed, the gently tapered ears, the dark, blood-colored hair, the sea green undercast to her eyes, the fine mouth and nose, all were her father's.  
  
"He would do the same with us, but upside down. He would come sad and leave happy," Readfah said, a small smile shaping itself on her lips, but not in her eyes. Suddenly, it seemed, both of them had been handed new pieces to the puzzle of their respective pasts.  
  
She and Elrond walked toward the small brook that bordered the woods. The afternoon shadows had grown longer, and they found a place to sit where the grass was smooth and cool and the water gurgled softly. She was quiet for a long time, but Elrond waited for her to speak, and prudently did not attempt to touch her as he longed to.   
  
"It was no shame in mother's tribe that she and Ada were not wed," Readfah began slowly, not meeting Elrond's eyes. "She told me, when he stopped coming, that she had not wished it, even though she loved him and he very much loved her. But she say he frighten her. Sad, happy, sad, happy. Change too much. He was always good to me - teach me to ride like elf do, speak to horse without mouth, and to shoot bow. Sometimes, I was afraid too. I would hear him with mother, in the night, and I would cry, but then I grow up and understand sound of joy. And when I was very little, his hand missing would make me feel funny here," she pointed to her stomach, "until he told me story, how a friend had to cut hand to save him."  
  
"That was Fingon," said Elrond gently. "Gil-galad's father."  
  
Readfah finally looked at Elrond."I am happy to know so. I hope Ada was not bad to king as he must have been to lady," Readfah shuddered. "She hates me so! I do not wish for people to hate me! I hear many bad stories of father, even from Green elf people. They did not blame me, but even so, many were not friendly. So, I never tell who he was to anyone. And I never know what he did. He never told me what made him so sad. He said always that mother and I were like Sun to him, and he would not shadow us with his trouble."  
  
"I will tell you something," Elrond said firmly, moving over to embrace her in spite of his promise. "Maedhros was no more evil at heart than you or me. His father swore his sons to an impossible oath, and one by one they all died for it, save Maglor. Your father loved you and your mother, and it is clear to me now that that was what kept him from losing his mind altogether for so long. He did many evil deeds, but I believe he was driven mad by the oath to do so. Many times, I remember, he would curse Maglor, shouting and railing as if he would gladly strike his head off, and end by weeping in his arms.  
"As for Gil-galad, he saw your father once, but never spoke with him, and they ended enemies, though they never did battle one with the other. Maedhros...died...soon after, and I went into the king's service. Of Maglor, nothing is known. It is said he became a hermit, and ventures no longer among men or elves, yet it is but a rumor, and I fear he must have met his end as well."  
  
"I hope not. Maybe some day he will be healed, and you will see him again. Maybe he has gone on ship to West."  
  
Elrond did not speak of his doubt, but only smiled. "I hope all of us find healing someday, my dear Readfah." She nestled close to him, and did not notice his use of the word "us."  
  
  
  
  
Celeborn's anger was the still, white-hot kind that took long to kindle and long to quench. Galadriel knew that, but she had never dreamed that he would set himself against her. He had been right, of course. She had let her fear master her, struck out in spite against one who had never harmed her, and made a fool of herself in the bargain. Her face burned with shame, recalling for the hundredth time that day her husband's words about Maedhros being unmoved by her beauty...she had boldly tried to use her womanhood to gain freedom for an imprisoned kinsman on one occasion, and it had only served to make him angrier. "Wench!" he had cried, and she felt the wind of the blade Readfah now carried whistle past her face. "Come near to me again and your head will part company with your neck!"  
  
Galadriel shuddered, and rose from the silk-sheeted couch where she had been lying, open-eyed, since she left Gil-galad's tent. She looked over at her sleeping daughter. There had been a time when an elf-maid's beauty alone was all she needed to guarantee her suitors, but now it was no longer enough. Celebrían was stunningly beautiful. Though she had been born in mortal lands, she appeared to move in a soft glow of silver light as if the Moon shone in her hair. She was much like Galadriel to look at, but barely came up to her mother's shoulder, and there was the matter of her silence. Celebrían never uttered two words when one would do.  
  
Galadriel had once been confident that Celebrían would win the king over. Their first meeting a year ago hadn't really counted; things had been rushed and unexpected trouble had arisen necessitating a hasty departure, but he had spoken to her, and all seemed well. Another good sign was that Celebrían had turned quite pink when asked how she had liked Gil-galad.   
  
But with two short flashes of insight all of that seemed to teeter on the edge of oblivion. Galadriel had seen the easy, laughing way Gil-galad had with Readfah as they and Elrond walked up to meet her. She had almost sickened with fear, even before she had seen Readfah's face. Then, when Readfah had bolted from the tent, she had seen Gil-galad's eyes follow her with an unmistakeable look of yearning, and of envy for Elrond. Galadriel had felt her world desert her, and she had no haven but this tent to retreat and take counsel with herself.   
  
If Gil-galad had no desire to wed Celebrían, then no incentive existed for him to yield any control of the rings. Besides, Galadriel suspected that the third ring was elsewhere. She had sensed the presence of Vilya, but Narya was not there. Fools! She was the only one who knew how to fully tap their power! She was the only one who had dared, even if it had only been for a moment, to wear hers and take within her the entire knowledge of the power she wielded. Only she knew how the rings worked together! She groaned as she remembered how Celebrimbor had been ready to give all three to her, and her own words, "Nay, sir! T'would be safer to separate them! Give me the Adamant, for I am come from over the Sea, but bestow the others elsewhere."  
  
He had obeyed her, but now how she rued her own words. Ever had her hasty tongue been her enemy. She would never make that mistake again. She looked back at the sleeping Celebrían, and mused, 'Perhaps she was made so, to teach me prudence! I will take it so, and in time, no one will gainsay the wisdom of the Lady.'   
  
  
  
  
Gil-galad and Celeborn rode together deep into the Southern end of the valley. Accustoming themselves to their new horses was as good a reason as any to disappear for a while. Celeborn's mount, a large, fire-colored mare, was of gentle disposition, until she was tested with the smell of orc blood, whereat she snapped and bit much as Readfah's mare did. Gil-galad's horse needed no such provocation to bite, and only when Gil-galad mentioned feeding horsemeat to the hounds did Raha, as he called him, stand dutifully to be mounted, the whites of his eyes showing.  
  
"What will you call her?" began Gil-galad, nodding at the mare by way of starting a conversation, after they had ridden in silence for a while.  
  
Celeborn sighed. He was always ill at ease with idle chat. "I haven't given it thought, yet, sir," he said in a clipped tone. Then, realizing his anger at Galadriel was spilling into his talk with the king, he immediately apologized and softened his voice. "Your pardon sir. I would also ask your pardon for the inexcusable behavior of my wife, earlier. She sometimes allows her feelings to override reason."  
  
As you would do well to do, sometimes, thought Gil-galad. He waved the apology off, and took a deep breath. "Celeborn...I wish to wed with your daughter, if she is willing."  
  
Celeborn had to grasp two handfuls of mane to keep his seat, even though the horses were walking slowly. He wanted to accuse the king of jesting, but realized that would be a slight to Celebrían. He swallowed hard, and his brows almost disappeared into his hairline.  
  
"It...it would be an honor, sir. But I thought, that is, I thought..."  
  
"You thought that it was mostly your wife's idea."  
  
"Yes, sir," he relaxed a little.  
  
"Maybe it was, at first. But I do see the wisdom of it, and she is lovely, and I have no other entanglements."  
  
"But, do you -"  
  
"Love her? No. Care for her? Yes. She is not only beautiful, but good natured and sensible. I am a king, milord. I was long ago prepared, that if I should wed, I would follow the inclination of my head rather than my heart. And surely you have seen that Celebrían herself desires no one. It is in the nature of most elves to wed, but there are a few who desire no spouse. If we were not of royal blood, we would both happily remain alone. Better then, that we should wed, we who cannot break each other's hearts, and serve the needs of our people if not ourselves. Besides, in time, a deeper affection may take root, and we may find contentment."  
  
Celeborn digested this for a few moments. "If she is of the same mind, and willing, I will not withhold my consent."  
  
"One stipulation only do I make. We will hold ourselves betrothed until the One Ring is wrested from Sauron, or unmade. Until then, no wedding will take place."  
  
Celeborn struggled with a smile until he finally allowed it to break out. If he had ever had any doubts about Gil-galad's problem-solving abilities, they were buried now.  
  
  
  
  
And so there was a truce. The sun set on Imladris that evening with music and merriment made by those blissfully unaware of the late friction. Galadriel was pleased that her husband had forgiven her foolishness so quickly, and sat beside him with a look of joy so genuine no one doubted that she had repented of her hasty words. Gil-galad devoted himself to Celebrían, who alternated between smiles and looks of utter consternation at his bold manners. They had feasted on well seasoned pheasants that Gil-galad's archers had brought down three days ago, oysterroot, and good wine.  
  
After the meal, Elrond and Readfah wandered down to the brook again, this time barefoot, and they sat for a long time, dipping their feet in the water and talking about the happier times of their youth. Suddenly Elrond laughed.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just remembered, playing with Elros in a stream like this one - we were just boys - Maglor had been gone most of the day and when he came back he had a brace of birds he had gotten for our dinner, and a big sack full of peaches. Elros was the younger, but he knew when to stop. I didn't. They were delicious, and I ate until I almost burst. I was never such a glutton again, but do you know, Readfah, that was the best day of my life! We played in water, no one was chasing us, and we got to eat our fill!"  
  
He looked around him and grinned. "The only thing that's missing now are the peaches."  
  
Readfah pointed to a small tree behind him. "That is plum tree," she said mischievously. "But plums are green still. Make you sick faster, no?"  
  
Elrond made a face at her and with a deft movement of her foot, she splashed a few drops of water in his face. Sputtering, he reached as if to tickle her, but stopped with a sharp breath, as if something had bitten him. One hand slid around her shoulders, and the other stroked her face as tenderly as he would have a petal of niphredil. His last thought before his mouth covered hers was that he didn't really miss the peaches after all. 


	6. Chapter Six

Author's notes:  
Thanks to my faithful reviewers!   
As Readfah would say, "Worry not!" Though many sad things, as we know, will come to pass, I feel I should say that her demise is not one of them. I don't feel right allowing my readers to wait for that particular axe to fall! The question of her ultimate fate is for later, much much later.  
The next 1300 years or so are a sort of inorganic period for my Elves, as Númenór takes center stage at this time in Middle Earth history. The Last Alliance has been written in far more detail that I will treat with it, and with far more talent, as I am not a very good war historian. I found researching this battle and that to be dull as powder. I am much more a "home front" writer, and am much more interested in persons than events. However, even when I must deal with war, I hope to keep the story spiked with enough romance and interelven meanness to keep things on a boil.   
Enjoy!   
  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Six  
  
  
  
Nearly two years passed, and many changes came to Imladris. The house foundation had at last been finished, and despite Elrond's gloomy observation that it looked as if it had been set by a group of Dwarves under the influence of too much mead, it was broad, solid, and stable. The original plan had been discarded during his longest absence, and the vast flagged floor curved this way and that to follow the path of the stream behind it. The great main hearth, with its chimneys rising to the sky from the center of the floor, now contained huge crystals; green, purple, and clear, among the water-smoothed stones that had once been the only planned component. Rooms Elrond had never dreamed of were outlined and walled off; baths, an herb room, a surgery, a library, two dining halls, a kitchen actually built indoors, and countless porches and terraces on several levels.   
  
"It's like a palace, only far homelier," he said to Readfah the following morning, as they made their way arm in arm around the perimeter, a not inconsiderable walk. He would have to remember to have the pathways made wider.  
  
"I thought you would like it better," she said. Her Sindarin had become much more fluent since the day she arrived, though she still lapsed into excited Nandorin clackings when most annoyed. She stopped and put her arms up around his neck, stroking the pair of braids that swept up from his ears and fell from the crown of his head to melt into the rest of his dark, rippling hair.  
  
"I do. You will be in it now," he cupped her face in both his hands and kissed her, then continued walking.  
  
Though she knew little about the science of architecture, she bedeviled those who were expert to help her plan a more comfortable home for Elrond. The crew of stonemasons and carpenters had agreed, and over many pots of tea, trays of sweets, and the occasional flagon of wine filched from Gil-galad's private store in the cold grotto up under the falls, the sketchmakers had finally produced their masterpiece. "It will not be just a roof to keep rain off. You will shelter and feed many, here," she had said when he came home at last, and stood staring at the new, sprawling house-to-be.  
  
  
  
  
  
They had not talked overmuch of wedding. Like many Elven couples of the time, they had decided, as Gil-galad had, not to take permanent vows or oaths until the ultimate defeat of their enemy. When Sauron took prisoners, his chief delight was not to slay them, but to keep them alive and torture them forever. He took especial pleasure in capturing only one member of a bound couple, knowing that the other would suffer the same torment in addition to eternal separation. This had happened too many times before, with Morgoth in the Elder days, and now with Sauron. Both had hated the Elves with unyielding hatred, and so many lovers postponed their vows, and brought few children to birth in those dark days.  
  
"This is but a lull, not the end," Gil-galad had warned them. Though Tar-Minastir, the Númenórean king whose aid had helped bring the "lull" about, would be dead many hundreds of years before it did end, a seed of alliance had been sown between the Eldar and the Edain that would not soon die. Stay in readiness for war, he told them, do not relax vigilance. The enemy is weakened, but not dead. For Elrond this had meant service at Gil-galad's right hand, as well as the training of healers and the manufacture and distribution of medicines and surgical tools. For Readfah, it was not only her accustomed work of obtaining, breeding, rearing and training horses for war, but the sometimes delicate job of training their riders; showing them how to make use of the movements the horses had been taught to make them effective warriors in their own right.  
  
Most Elves bonded naturally with beasts, and so were not hard to instruct, but the Númenórean horsemasters who came to Imladris now and then were not easy students. Many found it a slight to their pride to be taught by a woman. They would argue with her until they found themselves on their backs in the dust, thrown by their mounts at her silent command.  
  
"Be footsoldier then!" she shouted on more than one occasion, looking down from her perch on Wimowë. Some would relent, others presumed to complain to Gil-galad himself, who would merely express sympathy in a voice edged with tactful concern, though he was struggling hard to repress the mirth in his fox-bright eyes, and inquire politely if her suggestion might not be for the best.   
  
"Since," he continued, "I have yet to meet another who has over a thousand years practice in the art. I have myself been instructed by Readfah, and consider it an honor."  
  
The unspoken words "and you would do well, sir, to do the same" hung in the air after all such exchanges, and usually marked the end of the discussion.  
  
In the end the Men of the West, though certainly competent, never became as renowned for their horsemanship as certain others of the mortal kindred whom they deemed lesser than themselves. There were notable exceptions, but for the most part they were mariners and swordsmen, masters of lore, craftsmen, and statesmen of far greater stature than ever they were horsemen. That privilege was to be reserved for another race of Men; unlearned, unlettered, but the most honest and stouthearted of all Men to call Middle Earth their home.  
  
  
  
  
Readfah led Elrond to a higher terrace that had another path rising behind it. A small bit was sheltered by a grove of trees where a spring bubbled up and tumbled to the stream below. She was gratified by his surprised pleasure, for the spring had been found only recently, and rose from a dazzling bed of clear rock crystals to form a tiny pool of shimmering colors in the dappled shade.   
  
"It's beautiful," he looked up at her, the play of colors reflected in his eyes. "Did you...?"  
  
"No, it was like this of itself, just covered over with dirt. I cleaned it off, and I had the path made so it would cross the stream."   
  
Elrond then saw how the path was placed so that it crossed the little stream that joined the larger one further downhill. A stone bridge, just two steps across, spanned it quite charmingly, and there was even a seat for two, formed of large, flat stones between the tangled, moss-cooled tree roots. The whole was a cozy and restful shaded nook tucked just out of sight of the house.   
  
He reached for her hand and pulled her to sit beside him. He regretted that he had not taken the time to remove all his armor, for the mail shirt still clinked uncomfortably under the bright blue brocaded tabard bearing Gil-galad's device of silver and white stars. He kissed her just the same.  
  
When at last he pushed away from her, he was panting slightly. "Readfah..."  
  
"I know," she trembled as she spoke.   
  
"I want you, now," his hot breath tingled in her ear, and his hand moved up to slide across her breast. She groaned, blushing hard as his arms encircled her and brought her so close she could hear his heart beat.   
  
"No...please...tonight, when the Moon is up."  
  
He sought her lips again. "Hang the Moon! It's been nearly a year since I've even seen you, and even then we didn't have a single moment alone!" he whispered, almost angrily.  
  
"I know," she said again, "but I want to be with you like we were the first time. Do you remember?"  
  
His eyes narrowed, his lips slackened with an intake of breath and he stared hard at her, forcing himself to back away. Reluctantly, he rose and followed her, with difficulty, back down the path.  
  
Did he remember? His loins thudded with remembering. They had waited for the camp to drift asleep, and the Moon to rise to its peak over Imladris before they stole away back to the grassy stream bank where he had first kissed her in earnest. Though they were both far past the age when most elves wed, they were still in their youth, and they were virgins, and they could not wait. No vows were made, no rings changed hands, no friends stood by, but they had been happy then, if briefly, before he had to ride away yet again to war.  
  
Readfah too, was full of her own memories of the day she returned. A stallion with a coat like new-minted gold had flown past her as she descended the path into the valley - the black of his legs, muzzle and mane gleaming as if polished, whistling in his eagerness to reach Elrond. And she had felt the same fierce eagerness, knowing in her body and spirit to whom she was bonded. All the other memories of that day, from the honest pleasure in Gil-galad's eyes as he clasped her hands, to Galadriel's rage, and even to Celeborn's surprisingly eloquent defense of her, faded before the recollection of Elrond's loving face above hers in the silver light that shone upon them like a blessing, and the sound of joy bursting from their throats like song.  
  
  
  
  
"I don't care. I don't like them," Readfah said, scowling as Gil-galad broke the news that 100 Númenórean horse soldiers would be arriving in a few days to bivouac in Imladris for the remainder of the summer and through autumn. She tried to ignore Elrond, who paced restlessly, now and then catching her eye with a look that made her feel weak. He had discarded the mail shirt, and was clad now only in tunic, breeches and boots, all of which accentuated his height and the hard ripple of muscles in his long body. She had to force herself to concentrate on Gil-galad, which didn't help, though the discomfort she felt from looking at him right now was of a different sort.  
  
The king detested formality, and often worked stripped to the minimum necessary for modesty when summer was at its height. Just now he was dressed much like Elrond, and sat bent over a pile of very formal looking parchments and papers and looking very much like he wished a strong wind would come and blow them away.  
  
"They are our allies. We don't have to like them. Grudging though their approval may be, that they continue to send their horsemen to be trained here is a compliment to you, Readfah." Gil-galad only seldom reproved her, mostly because she was not officially under his command, but also because he agreed with her.  
  
"They are nasty," Readfah replied fearlessly. "They ride like mealbag with string tied in middle. They don't have any idea how to care for horse. And you want to send them some of mine? I say no! I would never sleep again!"  
  
"That is your decision," he said. Readfah swore under her breath. Gil-galad always did that when he failed to get his way...replied with a studied indifference that screamed of his disappointment. She hated to say no to him, but this last request was just too much. Her horses, ridden by men who were bound to be like all the others of their kind; disrespectful, arrogant, and conceited past bearing? The thing was impossible.  
  
"I wish we were allies with Men of North," she grumbled, fidgeting with the long, dark red braid she now kept her hair in most of the time.  
  
"I wish so too, from what you have told me and what little I've seen, I think they would be remarkably useful. But, they are too few, and too scattered, and no two clans are of the same opinion about anything."  
  
"Mmm," she grunted, wishing she could get him to talk about something else, but there simply hadn't been anything else to talk about. The days had run together for so long they seemed like one. Elves did not generally think in terms of what day it was, but what time of year it was, only resorting to calendars when forced to deal in precise measurements of time. Even the sundial had been an invention of Men.   
  
"I'm going to go for a ride," she announced at last. "I need to get out for a while."  
  
"Splendid idea," agreed Gil-galad, glad to find an excuse to leave off shuffling papers for a while. "I'll go with you. I haven't ridden that hellion of mine since I got back and he'll be bound to think he's gotten away with something." Seeing Readfah's look of dismay, he smiled and added, "I promise not to talk about anything unpleasant!"  
  
Elrond looked a bit stupefied, until Readfah turned to him with an invitational twitch of the braid she now let drop. "You come too, eh, tall one?" she said in perfect mockery of her own early speech.  
  
He nodded uncomfortably, restraining himself from her by force of will alone. Riding would be torture right now, but Han, the black and gold stallion who had bonded with him, did need his daily run or he would be unruly. He stepped out into the bright sunshine, and forced himself to think of other things than the coming night.  
  
  
  
  
The Moon was low in the Western sky, and Elrond lay intertwined with Readfah in the grass, holding her close to him in the sweet stillness before dawn. Her arms were still around his neck, as they had been when she had cried out his name, woven with incoherent Laiquendi words that needed no translation. She seemed to sleep, but she didn't. He found himself wanting her again, though he knew that he had already exhausted himself physically. It was a longing that only a full bond could ever satisfy, and he knew that could not be, not yet.  
  
He sighed and shifted his weight off of her gently, but her eyes opened.  
  
"Leaving me so soon, long legs?" she teased.  
  
"Never," he growled, playfully nipping at her neck. "Do you never tire, shameless one?"  
  
"Never!" she laughed. "But morning comes and tomorrow is another day. And unless you want everyone to see your backside with nothing on it..."  
  
He laughed too. "I can think of worse things!"  
  
"Getting caught making love like horses, maybe?"  
  
Elrond rolled his eyes and moaned. That had been the most unabashedly sensuous experiences he had ever had, but no, he would not have wanted to be observed in such a raw display of nakedness, physical or otherwise. He stooped to kiss her.  
  
"You're terrible, and I love you."  
  
"You are too and I do too. I want to get in water. It will be warm today and I don't want to be sticky."  
  
They walked down into the brook, and after a few false starts - the water was very cold - they found a deep place and sank down gratefully into it. Their hands swept each other under the gentle current, and they kissed again and again until, in spite of time and the delicious tiredness they felt, they found themselves joined once more. The Moon's light, now a pale gold, reflected off their bodies and for a moment in eternity they looked like a pair of the original Firstborn, discovering each other at the dawn of all time. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Author's notes:  
Day late, but not a dollar short, I hope! Spent my usual edit day in the Dr.'s office. Gout. Ouch. Seems I overdid the seafood a few days ago. I feel like Elrond and his peaches...only in my foot!  
I hope my faithful readers enjoy reading my tale as much as I'm enjoying writing it. This is probably the point at which extreme purists will start to twitch, as I probably won't be able to keep up with who was king of Númenór when, except for the notorious Ar-Pharazôn.  
This chapter is kind of a seed-planting chapter, not much action, but a lot of foreshadowing. Patience! It does get better!  
Note to horse lovers; for a rough idea of what the horses Readfah so disapproved of were like, see a picture of an Arabian, then think lighter weight. For what the horses of the proto-Rohirrim (originally like a lighter, unfeathered Clydesdale) evolved into, see a classic ram-headed purebred Cleveland Bay, add another 150 lbs. or so and vary the colors. The Gondorrim; the Trakehner. For what most Elves had in later years, the Andalusian, on the larger side.  
Foreign expressions will be roughly translated below. Some adaptation and invention.  
Thanks again for all the kind reviews!  
  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Seven  
  
  
  
  
Readfah sat in a tree, frowning deeply at the Númenórean cavalrymen following Gil-galad's escorts two by two through the wooded cover of the Western pass into Imladris. They were not wholly irredeemable, these tall Men of the West, but, prepared to dislike them, she could find nothing to admire. True enough, their kinship to the Elves was there for all to see and hear, for they were nearly all tall, dark haired and grey-eyed and their voices were melodious; but most of them were not at home on horses, and the horses, Readfah noted sourly, were exactly like the ones she had gone to so much trouble to trade away.  
  
Men and horses alike were clad in rich panoply; jet armor, onyx-handled swords and daggers gleaming with gems, and silver-on-black tabards embroidered with a white crown topped by a star. The same device was embossed in silver on their helms, and their horses, sweating to a froth under the weight of matching armor, bore the finest and most elaborate of saddlery. The men looked proud and fierce, and in battle they were, but now they were weary from their long journey from the coast. Most of them were happy enough to keep their eyes ahead, but not a few looked about them in wonder, for the valley had been invisible to them until the Elves brought them into the canopy of trees at the edge of the clifftops, and suddenly it seemed to them that a wide green vista that had been heretofore unseen unfurled before their eyes. None save a few of the most keen-eyed even noticed Readfah in the tree, and seeing her expression, thought better of a greeting.  
  
  
  
  
Gil-galad had had his way, as he usually did. He had summoned Readfah to his tent that very morning, to tell her just how pleased he was that she had decided to cooperate. He had wisely refused to meet her eyes, choosing instead to polish the head of his great spear, Aeglos, to a fine point as he spoke. He knew it was useless to try and bluff her into anything; it was usually best to be matter of fact and let the chips fall where they would. She rewarded him with a terrible look, and walked out as soon as he had finished speaking, with no reply. He thought briefly of her father and shuddered in thanksgiving that he had never engaged him face to face. According to the tales he had heard, Maedhros had been a savage, and even with one hand had wielded a sword with chilling efficiency. Gil-galad recalled, unbidden, Readfah's face the day she put those horses out of their pain, and knew without doubt that many who had met Maedhros in combat had that same enraged glare burned into their eternal memories as they died.  
  
'And likely by that same blade, if they came too close.' he thought. 'Well, she is not her father, Varda be praised, though I doubt not she would be as deadly in like circumstance.'   
  
His keen ears picked up the sound of many hoofs, and with a sigh, he took Aeglos back to the tent and hung it carefully, point up, from a pegged pole. This was not going to be easy. It never was. There was Readfah now, with a face like thunder, riding up to meet Tar-Minastir's new Master of Horse. Gil-galad gave a sharp whistle, and Raha presently came trotting up, his mouth full of grass.   
  
"Don't you look fine?" The king's expression of disgust was met with a green-toothed grin. Shaking his head, he gave the horse a quick grooming so he wouldn't look altogether disreputable, leapt lightly to his back and hurried to join Readfah.   
  
  
  
  
It was as Gil-galad had feared. Talanzef, the thin, long faced Númenórean horse-master, had taken one look at Readfah's plain, work-stained attire, addressed her as "girl" and had haughtily ordered her to find someone of rank for him to speak to. Now the man was sputtering angrily and picking himself up off the ground where, seconds later, his horse had thrown him. To make matters worse, some of his own men were tittering behind their gauntleted hands. They had heard tales of her, and the phrase "Elrond's redhaired witch" had lost it's savor long ago, so old was it.  
  
Gil-galad silently thanked the Valar for his years of practice. He barked what sounded like a reproof to Readfah, and turned solicitously to the irate horse-master.   
  
"No doubt you and your men want to rest from your journey," he said in a voice so full of sympathy that Talanzef peered at him suspiciously, as if he sensed he was being twitted."Take all the time you need. Food has been prepared and fresh water drawn for you. And, I beg you, take no thought of the ill temper of the Mistress of Horse! She has a wicked disposition and the manners of a troll, but she is without peer at her craft, and will serve his Majesty's men well."  
  
Talanzef had no choice but to bow, but his lined face grew even more grim than usual. He distrusted the Eldar, and, like a growing number of the Númenóreans, envied their immortality. Yet, he was still servant of his own king, and went where and to whom he was bid. He thanked Gil-galad with as good grace as he could, and began shouting orders to his men. Before long, they were all settled in their own tents, and did not emerge again until that evening.  
  
  
  
  
"Manners of a troll, indeed! Someday I will forget you are king!"  
  
"You do that all too often as it is!"  
  
Elrond rode up just then, and laughed as he slid from Han's back near a group of younger elves who were eating their daymeal by a small fire. The arguments between Readfah and Gil-galad were almost legend, and they were listening in without the least embarrassment.   
  
"Hello, Leithel, Arion!" he greeted his two assistants in a booming voice intended to alert the combatants that they had an audience.  
  
"Hello, sir!" grinned Arion, who was a mischievous lad of Grey-elven descent. He thumbed irreverently toward the tent. "He shall win. She almost always gives in when he begins to weep!"  
  
Readfah heard his voice and immediately forgot about arguing. She ran out of the tent to greet Elrond, and he bent eagerly to kiss her.  
  
"Our guests are here, I can tell," Elrond earned a mock slap for pulling the V of her tunic toward him with one finger and peering down with obvious interest at the contents.  
  
"Yes, curse their foul..."  
  
"Readfah!" came a shout from the tent, "Ætstande!"  
  
Elrond jumped. "What was that?"  
  
" 'Cease!' in my mother-tongue," she chuckled. "He has heard me working with some young horses, no doubt." She kissed him again. "I will be back soon. I have a lame one to see to."  
  
Gil-galad peered out as she walked out to the grazing ground. "It worked! I shall have to learn more. Elrond! What news?"  
  
"Dispatches from Celeborn. All is quiet. And, a sweet missive from the Lady Celebrían." Elrond waved the scented bit at the king, intending to tease him, but Gil-galad snatched it away with a quick, deer-like movement and turned his back, ignoring the rest of the papers. He traced the silvered waxen seal tenderly with one finger before breaking it, then stood and read the letter as one mesmerized, biting his knuckle as he did so.  
  
Did his eyes deceive him, or was Gil-galad actually blushing? Elrond stood blinking at the revelation, and a smile played at his lips. Good, he thought, oh very good. He turned back to Readfah, who was almost out of sight. No matter. They would have plenty of time to catch up tonight. He felt himself growing warm.  
  
  
  
  
A few days passed. Readfah rode by the group of cavalrymen she was to work with that morning, better pleased than she had expected to be. Then again, this squad was of nearly all younger men, eager to learn, and far less imbued with the prejudices of their elders. Many had never known Elves, and their curiosity overcame the vague mutterings that they had heard now and then.   
  
Talanzef was ill pleased to see the "grinning young fools" as he called them, lying flat along their horses' backs at a full trot. He did not like the new horses either; being a man who much liked uniformity, he has hissed dangerously when his men were given the varicolored mounts from Readfah's herd. Readfah! He spat the name out. These elven folk were mad. A female, teaching men to manage war horses! Madness! He watched as she put the horses and riders through several varied exercises, then spat again and retired to his tent.   
  
Readfah watched one young man ride gracefully by at a controlled gallop, his feet dropped from the stirrups and his arms folded, not using the bridle at all. He threw a leg over his mount's neck, rode aside for a few strides, then jumped down to the ground and vaulted back on in one smooth motion. She smiled in spite of herself and waved him over to her.  
  
"That was done well," she nodded.  
  
"Your Kapla is well trained, and I have been riding since I was small," he confessed, looking very like how she imagined Elrond might have looked as a boy, with large grey eyes and noble features. His black hair was cropped well above his neck, however, as many soldiers preferred to wear it. Had his ears been more tapered and had there not been a hint of shadow at his upper lip and chin, Readfah might have taken him for a Noldorin princeling.  
  
"What is your name?"  
  
" I am Faramir, son of Orin, Madam," he said proudly. "My father serves as one of King Minastir's secretaries."  
  
Without warning, a shrill, yodeling cry rent the valley, and a thunder of distant hoofs set all the horses on edge, and they began to paw the ground and fidget under their riders.   
  
"What is it, Madam?" Faramir asked nervously.  
  
"I-I don't know," Readfah quivered with a strange, wild thrill she did not understand. "But arm yourselves!"  
  
Elves and men alike came running, snatching up sword and bow at the cry of warning from the Western pass. Shouting, shrill whinnies of horses, and commanding voices mingled from above with the rattle of weaponry. Wimowë screamed suddenly and bolted toward the cliff, hardly slowing down at all as she climbed. She barely noticed Elrond and Han closing behind her until she neared the top and broke through the barrier at the wooded ridge.  
  
There met her eyes a sight she had never dreamed of seeing.  
  
For there in a circle, back to back, a dozen tall, pale-haired horsemen sat mounted, arrows to the string, prepared to die at the hands of the Elven sentinels who surrounded them. Behind them, a great herd of horses, the like of which no one had ever seen, stood as if awaiting a signal to move.  
  
"Readfah!" one of them shouted, and threw down his bow, spreading his arms wide in the universal gesture of surrender. It was a bold move, for Elrond's scouts had been poised also with drawn bows and twitching fingers.  
  
"Blædes Béma godes éadignes, heo ist her! Gem'tanes heo!"* yet another cried, and this one's voice Readfah knew.  
  
"Ux? Ux? Ist éow?"** she slid off Wimowë and waded through the tall grass toward them. The elves lowered their weapons and turned to Elrond, who raised a hand and nodded, without taking his eyes off the strange men.  
  
The biggest one of them all leaped from his mount and in three strides had Readfah enfolded in his arms. Ux looked much as he had the night she left the Northern downs to return to Imladris, perhaps a little older, but then he had barely been a man when they first met. She noticed he still wore the arrowhead she had given him, and though now looped about in leather, a few stray wisps of Wimowë's tail hair remained.  
  
"How good it is to find you! I thought we never would. We have been searching mostly by guesswork."  
  
"And been lost a few times as well!" another familiar voice chimed in quietly. She looked up in time to see Bréalaf bending to embrace her gently.  
  
"But why?" she was shaking with amazement when he released her.  
  
"To bring an offering," he gestured toward the horses. "We do not forget those who have been good to us. These are the firstfruits of your gift to us. These are the best we have. They are yours."  
  
She saw both men pull their eyes from her to look behind her, and she felt the warmth at her back as Elrond slid his hands possessively to her shoulders. At that, it was as if they suddenly realized that Readfah, and the people she lived with, were of a very different kind than they. The men grew silent, but for a whispered word Readfah barely heard, which meant "husband." She did not contradict it, but noticed a faint blush tinting Ux's cheek.  
  
"But come!" she called out before the moment grew awkward. "You will be my guests. That is, if it is permitted?" she asked Elrond.  
  
He hesitated, torn between natural courtesy and gratitude, and the sinking feeling that if many more mortal strangers came to Imladris its description as a refuge for elves would be misapplied. He most assuredly did not like the way they, and that big one in particular, looked at Readfah. Then again, he trusted her, and these were her people - in a way.  
  
"Of course," he said, softening as soon as she looked up to him.  
  
  
  
  
Amid a buzz of conjecture from the Elves - for no one understood the strange language but Readfah - the newcomers wound their way down the cliffside, following Elrond. Readfah rode beside Ux, trying in a few short moments to explain Imladris, and why they hadn't been able to see the valley. They grew silent as they neared the bottom, and the whole of the river gorge spread before them like a.tapestry woven in a thousand shades of green.  
  
Weapons lowered, the men of Númenór, who were camped closest to the pass, stared at the huge, leather-clad Northmen. A low rumble of voices began, and the tone was anything but friendly. Some dared to speak aloud, and Readfah picked rude words from the air - "barbarians" among the least offensive. Her cheeks burned, but she held her tongue, and more than one of Talanzef's men looked at the ground as she passed. The pale haired riders kept silent for her sake, but they were neither deaf nor stupid.  
  
Gil-galad waited at the bottom, eyes wide, wondering what in Arda had she done now? He had already set his weapons aside, it would be too foolish to meet a mere dozen men as if expecting a thousand. And the horses! More horses streaming into Imladris. And these men - rough, travelworn, speaking an outlandish tongue of which none save Readfah had the vaguest understanding - it was too much.   
  
"You must trust me in this, king," Readfah said, even before he spoke, for his face was an open book to her. "They hate yrch as we do, and they are my - brothers - if I may say it. They will bring no harm here."  
  
Gil-galad stared for a moment. "I have ever trusted you, since your return, and I fear no harm from your people." He cast a glance over to Talanzef's camp."But as we know, oil and water..."  
  
Readfah nodded. "They are already aware, and promise no trouble."  
  
Gil-galad nodded, far from reassured, as she rode off with them to choose a campsite, wisely enough, on the opposite side of the valley. It was not the water of the North he had misgivings of, but the volatile cruse of Númenórean oil .  
  
  
  
  
  
That night, she walked back from the horse camp, bright eyed and laughing, to find Elrond sitting alone near the stream. He looked up at her, the anger in his face plain to see. The valley was not so wide that the sound of singing and storytelling could not be heard, and she had been over there for hours, or so it seemed.  
  
"I thought you weren't coming back," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice calm.  
  
"Don't be such an ass," she began lightly, then stopped, her face growing serious. "Wait, you really thought I would...?"  
  
She sat down and embraced him.  
  
"Elrond...if you had never seen your brother's children, and had the chance, would you not wish to see them?"  
  
His soft eyes met hers, puzzled, but not overly so. "Of course."  
  
"My mother had six children with her husband, after my father died. I have many relations I know not, these men could be the sons of my mother's people and I will never know. I never really thought about it that much until I was with them again. They will die very soon, and already I love them like sons, and brothers and fathers, and I will see their children born, grow old and die, and their children..." she grabbed both sides of her head in a vain effort to crush the whirl of mathematical infinity of which she had been given a glimpse.   
  
Elrond was silent for a moment. "And they envy us..." he murmured.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," he smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have known better," he stroked her back with both hands, and she shuddered into relaxation. His very touch was healing magic.  
  
"It is I who should be sorry. I should have brought you with me. But, the tongue...you should learn a few words, anyway.You know, they think you are my husband."  
  
Elrond looked altogether too pleased, "Now why would they think that?"  
  
"I have no idea," she kissed the point of his ear.   
  
"Demoness!" he hissed, pulling her down to lie beside him, pressing against her. She kissed her way down his neck, leaving a trail of sparks on his skin. Moaning, he hurried to unbutton the rest of the tunic.  
  
"You are always so thirsty," she teased.  
  
"Are you surprised? You remind me of that little spring..."  
  
"Why? Never dry?"  
  
"Evil one!" his breathing became irregular, the rhythm of his body on hers more insistent. He captured her mouth and her own heart thumped in anticipation.   
  
"Ic luf' éow," she whispered.  
  
"What?" he panted  
  
"I love you. Say it. Say it or I won't..."  
  
"I - Ic lu - "  
  
"Ic luf' éow."  
  
"Ic - luf' --éOW!"  
  
There was a rush of heat, a shimmer in the grass, and speech of any kind, save that of the heart, was forgotten.   
  
  
  
  
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*Glory to Béma-god's blessedness, she is here! We found her!  
**Ux, is that you? 


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's notes:  
What a mess with Fanfic, eh, folks?  
The next couple of chapters will seem slow to some of you, but do bear with me. I promise, many of the characters you all know and love will be appearing, and a surprise or two. It was my intent, when I began this story, to give a plausible explanation for some of the behavior of canon characters, including two or three minor but wonderful ones.  
Jilian Baade! I have been trying to email you without success. In answer to the questions in your last review, yes, the knife (not a sword, from tip to tip it is about 2 feet long) belonged to Maedhros. Tried to send you a pic of a Ghurka/Kukri knife, which was my inspiration for it.  
Is she immortal? Well, yes. Brought up in a semiprimitive mortal tribe, Readfah was never aware (as Elrond and his brother were) of any great Cosmic Choice she was entitled to as a half elf. It never occurred to Maedhros (or her mother) to say anything; to them she was an elf, she looked a lot like him, had strange gifts, etc. No glowing Maia appeared before her to ask what kindred she chose. So, she just lived and lived. But she actually does have a choice. Any more will be a spoiler.   
Thanks to all of you for continuing to review!  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Eight  
  
  
  
"Funny, I didn't think they bathed," a voice carried over to the Northmen's camp early one morning, deliberately pitched to be overheard.  
  
"It's a surprise to me too, brother, " came a reply. "Though by smell alone I can't tell one of them from one of their horses. I think they use horse fat to make their soap."  
  
"They have soap?"  
  
"You know, I hear they prefer to ride their mares on long journeys away from home..."  
  
A snort of derisive laughter followed. Ux, who understood enough of the Númenórean to know how foully they were being slandered, growled under his breath. He made a move as if to rise from the creek where he had been industriously scrubbing the grime from his body. His younger brother Sig, a tall, ruddy lad of seventeen summers, and their kinsman Godan, who was of like age and looks, looked up hopefully.   
  
"Nic onmun', geferanes,* that's what they want," the quiet voice of Bréalaf spoke soft reason, as always. "Besides, we vowed no trouble to the elf king."  
  
Sig dashed a stone into the water with an oath, and Ux sank back into the water and groaned. " A silly vow to keep peace with the boat-rowers! Why are we still here? Why don't we go home?"   
  
Bréalaf sympathized with the younger man's impatience. Ux had traveled this far on the thin hope that Readfah might be persuaded at last...only to find her bound to another. They had brought the finest colts they owned, only to be treated like outcasts by elves and other men alike; left severely alone, but not far enough away to escape the constant taunts. The elves at least kept silence, but most looked upon the Northmen as if they were exhibits at a fair. Only Readfah, and to certain extent, the one called Elrond, had shown any true welcome, and of course the king had been formally courteous. But even he had had doubt written all over his face, and Ux purely hated to be doubted. It was as bad as being challenged to a fight by a man with no honor.  
  
"Our horses need a rest, as well you know. And the king would have words with us, when we have rested and eaten well," interjected Bréalaf's uncle, Hulwyf, who sat in a shallow spot with some bits of wet leather thong ranged across his thigh, patiently rebraiding his nephew's hair. As the eldest among them, he was expected to preside over any works of diplomacy on behalf of the clan. Having never dealt with elves, he was uncomfortable about this, because his work was usually conducted from the back of a horse still breathless from the heat of battle.  
  
"I wish he'd get on with it then. It makes me tired just to be sitting around," Ux grumbled.   
  
He looked over at the tent where he knew Readfah dwelt with Elrond. Yes, he was all right with that, now. The men of his tribe grew up fast, and he knew in his heart it was for the best. He had watched the elf-lord, and seen the strong, wise goodness of him with eyes unclouded by any dishonesty. They are of the same kind, he thought. Even if she is kin to us. She is more like to him, and it is plain to see he brings her much happiness. He vowed right then to stop wasting his time. 'I have been a fool,' he thought. 'No longer.' As his feeling for Readfah began to settle into its proper place, so did his anger toward the scoffing boys across the clearing.   
  
He smiled a little, then stood up with a full grin. He knew he put any of the Númenóreans to shame, at least, when he wore no clothes.  
  
  
  
  
Celeborn arrived that morning from the Havens with none of his customary pessimism. Only when Readfah quipped, "Oh, have you been gone?" did he scowl, but only briefly. (He had been...almost a year.) There had been no orcs to be seen for league upon league between Lórien and Lhûn. He looked with interest at the progress made on Elrond's house and paid several compliments to the workers, who stood sweating and stripped to the waist, but still surprised and happy to have their work noticed by someone other than Elrond and that thread-picking Readfah. He even smiled at the Northmen, and commented on what fine warriors they were reputed to be. In short, he was not Celeborn.  
  
"What is the matter with him?" Gil-galad whispered to Elrond, who shrugged and continued to stare at the tall elf, who positively reeked of jollity.  
  
Readfah was even more amazed. Celeborn had always considered horses to be a necessary evil, but she had seen him petting and spoiling his red mare, Runyan, with bits of fruit and sweet bread, and talking to her as if she was a baby. He spoke pleasantly to everyone, then, understandably tired, he went in to lie down for a while.  
  
"D'you suppose it's something he ate? Bad mushrooms, maybe?" Readfah asked Gil-galad, both of them watching as the elf-lord smiled in his sleep.  
  
"I thought of that, too," interjected Elrond, who lounged crosslegged on another cot, inspecting a coneflower bloom.   
  
"He seems all right now, though. After all, there's nothing wrong with good spirits," Gil-galad opined.  
  
"This is Celeborn we're talking about," Readfah said worriedly.  
  
Gil-galad threw his head back, laughing. "I always worried that if he smiled too widely his face would crack.Well, my dear Readfah, it hasn't cracked and I'm not going to worry about it. I think he deserves to be happy, and if it takes bad mushrooms, I will gather them myself."  
  
  
  
  
Readfah knew she was playing with fire when she introduced the young Númenórean Faramir to the Northmen. He had been out early, and the morning fog hadn't lifted when he happened upon her favorite strawberry patch where she knelt with a basket, intending to surprise her friends with a sweet addition to their spare breakfast. On impulse she invited him, and he accepted without hesitation, as the wild berries were of an especially delicious sort, and all the more a treat when eaten under such primitive conditions. Faramir had grown up in one of the great manor houses of Númenór, and was used to eating strawberries with cream and honey if he so chose. The military life had been hard at first, especially for a younger son who carried no weight in gaining favors for his mates from the king, but despite the hardships he soon grew accustomed to them. He was far more a man at sixteen than many boys his age who had stayed behind in the comparative luxury of their homes.  
  
At first, natural suspicion made the small band of horsemen fall silent. They could not help but see he was a son of great wealth, with silver trimmed scabbards and swordbelt, booted to the knee in the finest black calfskin, and his garments wrought of the best and costliest fabrics. The Northmen, rich or poor, were all arrayed alike in simple unbleached linens and with fitted chaps and leggings of heavy gold-brown leathers over stout, laced ankle-high boots. Precious metals, for warriors, were reserved for badges of office, and the small gold hoop that every wedded man had punched through the top of his right ear. Readfah smiled at the way the husky wheaten haired boys sized up the slender dark one, but Faramir was outgoing and friendly, and soon was trading words with them while they gobbled strawberries along with the staple of salt meat.  
  
"Where is Thúr?" Readfah asked Ux. "I meant to ask before."  
  
"His father died, so he is now chief of the clan," was the reply. "Chiefs don't travel much, especially not in the first year or so. It takes that long for all the families to come pay respects."  
  
"And of course, there must be many feasts," Readfah bantered, watching him eat a strawberry with evident relish.  
  
Ux's blue eyes twinkled. "Of course."  
  
After a space, Readfah turned to him. "We never have properly welcomed you to our camp, you know. These are soldiers, sent here by order," she nodded over to a group of black-clad men who went about at one task or another, "but you are our guests. I regret we haven't offered you much in the way of a decent meal. In summer we don't store much, but eat as we find things."  
  
"Is there good hunting in these mountains? The men are anxious to ride, to be busy at something. If we are to stay, we will provide plenty of game, if it is to be had. The turf is so thick here it was hard to see tracks."  
  
"Oh, yes, there are deer everywhere, and a kind of wild sheep live up on the hills. Now and then our scouts flush a boar, and we always have some birds hanging in feather."  
  
"Then my men and I will see what we can find. Is tomorrow too late to call it a welcome feast?"  
  
Readfah shook her head, giggling. "It's never too late, or too soon. We have learned that it's always best to enjoy times of peace to the very full, my friend...they never last long enough, even for us."  
  
  
  
  
"Cum, etanet arodlice, hengesten in gerædu!" **  
  
" 'Wierge! Hwær ist min bog'?"***  
  
There was a sound of crunching and spitting, of clashing buckles, grunts from men and horses alike as girths were tightened, soft nickers and the grate of steelshod hooves on dry soil. The Northmen were not known for stealth, at least not at the beginning of a hunt. But, they never seemed to be without a good supply of meat, so they knew when silence was important.  
  
The first pale yellow string of dawn had widened to a ribbon when the last of them disappeared through the Eastern barrier. Readfah warned them to come back at dusk, even if emptyhanded, so scouts might be set to wait for them. They were in high spirits, and sang as they went, heedless of the moans and soft waking curses floating past them.   
  
"Whatever they come back with will have to be cooked or brined, Readfah," said Taenon, one of the assistant stewards of Gil-galad's house. He was under the tutelage of Siddona, a formidable elf woman who had once ruled the kitchens of the king's grandfather's house in Valinor."It's too warm and damp for anything else."  
  
"It's not really hunting weather," Readfah agreed. "But whatever they bring will be a nice change from overripe pheasant."  
  
The young elf laughed, tucking his dark braids behind his ears. "Even the rabbits seem to have gone into hiding. But as to the first question, shall we start a fire in the pit? It might seem a bit too much if they bring only birds or are reduced to spearing fish!"  
  
"Fear not, worthy cook!" she laughed with him. "I'll gather wood with you."  
  
  
  
The Sun was barely an hour past its height when a whistle from the Eastern cliffs told them that the hunters were already returning. A scout shouted something about knives and a larger fire, but this voice was swept away by the capricious breeze that whirled at the heights.  
  
Elrond paused, halfway between the fire pit and the tent, and gazed up at the path. "By all the stars! You must see this!"  
  
The hunters had come back, whistling, laughing, whooping, and immensely pleased with themselves. On a huge travois, pulled by two horses, lay a large white animal of a kind that no one recognized. At first Readfah thought they had gone and killed some farmer's cow in a distant village, but it was too large for that. It had a stronger scent, too; pungent, animal, yet somehow comforting, if the promise of sustenance and satiety could be contained in a smell. Its shaggy shoulders tapered to a smooth skinned flank and rump, and its horns curved up and away from its massive head. Its eyes were open in an angry glare and showed white around the rims, and its tongue curled stiffly from its mouth. It had taken several arrows to kill it, and it looked every bit as pugnacious in death as it must have in life.  
  
Gil-galad stared at the monstrous carcass, and whispered "Great ghost of Mandos..."  
  
"What is it?" Celeborn asked, half awake, then with a closer look he gripped Elrond's arm.  
  
"One of the kine of Araw?" he breathed. "It has been a hundred score years since I have seen one of those!"  
  
"Have we done wrong?" Ux turned to him. "This bull belongs to someone?"  
  
"Oh no! We call them that because they were brought to these lands by Araw, who is also called Oromë. He is one of the Valar, and took great pleasure in hunting."  
  
Ux had heard that strange word often, since his arrival. "You must tell me someday about these Valla," he said with polite interest. "But now work begins! Beast needs skinning."   
  
Elrond turned to Readfah, but she was already shouting for Taenon and the rest of the cook's assistants to gather more wood. She smiled up at him. "In Forochel the women used to say, 'men may exclaim over a kill, but it is the women who make it fit to eat.' "  
  
"By their company as well as their skill," Elrond bent to kiss her hand, and when her eyes met his, they both shivered deliciously in spite of the warm summer day.  
  
  
  
  
By nightfall the fire was down, the rich and tantalizing smell of fresh roast meat perfumed the entire valley, and elves, merry as always at any sign of a celebration, scattered through the wooded camp to announce that the feast was ready. Talanzef and a few of his men declined the invitation, and no one missed them, but many of the soldiers of Númenór who had hung back were pressed with plates of meat, sweet fruits, smoky black mushrooms ("good ones" Readfah assured Gil-galad with a wink) and bread. The king's donation was a pair of kegs containing some of his best mead, and one of elderflower wine.  
  
"So where did you find the beast?" Gil-galad toasted Hulwyf. "Astray up in the hills?"  
  
"Nic a'scriþa, your majesty," Hulwyf knew Readfah sat between them to translate, but he would struggle with the few Elvish words he had picked up. "Not stray. How you say, whole herd of beasts like yon. Two hour away South."  
  
"It's extraordinary. None have been seen since, well, we thought they had all died out. And they never lived around here."  
  
After listening to Readfah's murmured translation, the elder grinned and gave a typical Northman's reply, "Ach, well, they do now!"  
  
Wooden flagons clashed and the unlikely friends drank yet another draft between them. Someone had produced a flute and a clapping rhythm began. The women present were Elvish, and not inclined to show off in the company of Mortal men, but Leithel, who had a sweet voice and a lot of wine in her, remembered a few lines of a very earthy horseman's song that Readfah had secretly taught her. Soon, even the men of Westernesse were caught up in the melody, and the few who understood the bawdy words were not too shy to translate.  
  
Into the night, they danced and sang and feasted, and were glad to make merry while they could. In that, men and elves were not so different, Elrond thought. He wondered if he was the only one present thinking that perhaps the only thing the enemy had wrong with him was the inability to enjoy himself. Normally quiet, though never as serious as Celeborn, he felt a strange urgency at the sight of all the blazing, joy-filled eyes around him, and sought Readfah in the crowd, and found her talking to Faramir. The young man was nodding animatedly to something Readfah said when she saw Elrond watching her in silence from the edge of the clearing.  
  
He was standing very still, his tall, dark form outlined against the backdrop of stars. His eyes were invisible save for two tiny pinpoints of light hovering in the moon-silvered contours of his face. She excused herself and walked very slowly over to him. Without speaking, he took her hand and they melted into the darkness under the trees.  
  
  
  
  
Faramir could not help trembling a little as he legged Kapla into a charge with the two young Northmen bearing down on him head on. Why had he ever agreed to this? True, Readfah had padded both him and his horse well for the onslaught, but he still felt a little afraid. He even had time to feel a little silly with the grim eyes of his troop on him. Although he didn't see him, he knew Talanzef or one of his captains would be watching as well.  
  
The two horses were almost upon him when, at a cry from one of the riders, they turned their heels to him and lashed out at his mount from both sides. While Faramir was still recovering from that, the riders spun in their saddles, facing the horses' tails, and had their swords not been wooden practice slats, the youth would have been dead.  
  
"Now you see, milords," Readfah spoke above the scattered murmurs of the spectators, "How very important it is not to depend on stirrup and rein to keep your balance. Every morning you should spend at least an hour accustoming yourselves to riding without them, at all gaits and all positions."  
  
"All very well, madam," an insolent voice cut through the others. "But the youngster made no move to defend himself. The servants of the enemy do not 'play fair', and doubtless they have a few tricks of their own."  
  
A tall man with curling black hair and a closely trimmed beard pushed away from the tree upon which he had been leaning and stepped forward, his whole forceful presence a challenge. The devices embroidered on his sleeves showed him a veteran of many battles and many years service, and that he was still only a Captain betrayed a rebellious streak that hadn't endeared him to king or commander.  
  
Readfah did not have to turn to recognize him. "Doubtless. A good point, Captain Gimizor. But I am not teaching the art of combat, but the art of horsemanship.Whether a soldier uses the opportunity the horse helps him gain to behead his foe or stick him like a - " here she faced him, her eyes bright with mirth and malice, "- pig, is up to him."  
  
"I am curious to know, madam, what - you - would do if attacked on horseback," he shot back, keeping his composure with an effort.  
  
"What - I - would do?" she cocked a brow at him and smiled. "I would tell your horse to lie down with you and roll on you, and he would. But of course, you meant what would I do if I were one of your men, mmm?"  
  
Ignoring his reddening face, Readfah looked up as if searching for something, and presently Wimowë trotted into the clearing. Gimizor had not expected her to answer his challenge at all, let alone so soon, but his only thought was how satisfying it would be to see her on her back.  
  
Readfah was equipped only with her knife, and with Hulwyf's sword, which she carried unsheathed. Since Wimowë wore no headstall it was decided that her free hands made up for her lack of armor.  
  
"I don't trust him, Readfah," muttered Ux. "Why a real sword just to demonstrate something?"  
  
"Because the good Captain's manhood would fall off if he were reduced to using a wood slat, would it not?"   
  
Ux roared so loudly with laughter at that that the two boys had to pound his back, though they were scarcely laughing any less. When he looked up at last, his eyes red and his jaw aching, Readfah was at one end of the clearing, and Gimizor at the other. Wimowë danced and pawed, as if eager to attack.  
  
"I know, my girl," Readfah muttered, "we shall take him, you and I. There are few worse enemies than one's own unwillingness to learn."  
  
The signal was dropped. Wimowë screamed and leaped into a full gallop with no prompting, and in less that a heartbeat Readfah could see the reddened inner nostrils of her challenger's mount almost in front of her. With a cry she pulled the sword up, plunged it into the ground, and swung the mare around Gimizor's right side. She pulled her leg up, knee to chin, to avoid having it ripped by the armor as the animals' flanks grated against each other, then sprang onto the bay horse's rump, with her knife out and held to Gimizor's throat. His sword rattled to the ground.  
  
Readfah jumped down as the horse came to a halt.   
  
"So you see, milords," she said calmly, "that a well trained horse makes holes in the best woven plans of your enemy. To make use of such a horse takes a rider who is willing to practice. What I ask of you seems dull, and without much merit. Not all of you will be able to do everything I show you, but I ask that you have the will to try."  
  
Then to the amazement of all, she stooped, picked up Gimizor's sword, and handed it up to the still speechless knight.   
  
"I shall remember only your hatred of the Dark One, milord," she said simply, and walked away toward the silent crowd of men.  
  
  
  
  
Later, while at leisure, Readfah and Faramir, accompanied by most of the Northmen, decided on a closer inspection of Elrond's house. Several walls had gone up, and part of the roof, and some half finished carved pillars lay propped on beams.   
  
"Most of our homes are all of wood," Hulwyf commented. "This will be indeed fit for a great lord."  
  
They were most impressed by the strategic placement of great blocks of crystal to admit light. Some of the oddest were slanted, clear parallelograms that seemed to hold rainbows trapped inside.   
  
"And they don't have to be cut. They grow that way. Break one, and it will fall to pieces in the same shape."  
  
The men were shaking their heads at the very idea of rocks 'growing' when they passed the spot where the stairs to the front terrace would be. Elrond's tent was but a few paces beyond, and Readfah heard the sound of an agitated voice raised in a litany of complaint.  
  
She recognized Talanzef's voice easily. It was the only voice in the camp that seemed to quiver as if perpetually insulted, and just now it appeared to be directed at Elrond. Gil-galad had ridden to inspect an outpost that morning, and in his absence Elrond was assigned to hear grievances. She motioned her companions to silence; they stepped as close as they dared to the entrance and listened carefully.  
  
"I crave your Grace's pardon, but it has become an outrage. Not only must my men suffer the indignity of being taught by a woman, but they are wasting time on fruitless games more suited to children. There is also the matter of your own people, some of whom think nothing of rutting in the grass within hearing of our camp, and sleeping in trees right above us, and any of several - disturbances - over which I have too long held my tongue. Now it seems that your king's Mistress of Horse has taken that unruly pack of barbarians as her assistants, and my men are beside themselves."  
  
Readfah nearly snorted aloud and the effort of suppressing her laughter caused her to miss the first part of Elrond's reply.  
  
"...cannot think of what milord would propose as a solution. I cannot and will not presume to tell them what to teach, or how, for those matters are beyond my expertise. Should you choose to resign your position and become a strategist, you and I might work well together. As for the other, I will instruct my people to use more caution in their choice of sleeping arrangements, and more discretion in the matter of the r-r- err...their other actions."  
  
Talanzef bowed curtly, and left the tent so abruptly that he was forced to pull himself up short to avoid bumping into Readfah, who was still chuckling at Elrond's flawless impersonation of Gil-galad. He did not bother to conceal his scorn of her, or of the Northmen, but when he saw Faramir with them he became livid.  
  
"You!" Talanzef's voice rose to a near squeak."What are you thinking of, consorting with this - this -"  
  
Readfah's fingers twitched above the wicked curve of the knife at her belt. "Say it, swineherd of Númenór!" she roared in a voice no one had ever heard issue from her lips. "Say it and I will take your head off!"  
  
"Readfah, no!" Elrond reached for both her hands, then found himself flung several feet from her. Everything seemed to slow down; all the men had frozen like statues in astonishment at the sudden change in her. Elrond saw, and recognized, the mad expression that had taken over her face, the knife whipped like a flash of fire from its sheath and the half-crouch her body assumed as she drew back to swing at Talanzef's head.  
  
It took both Ux and Elrond to hold her off, and the young men stepped in front of Talanzef, who stood white and motionless. Ux saw only the face of an angry woman, but Elrond saw the dark fury moving in her eyes, the arching brow, the lips drawn back from her teeth, and his heart pounded at the sight.  
  
"Let - me - go!" she screamed, twisting her back with unnatural strength. "Let me go!"  
  
Several of Talanzef's men had been at hand and closed on Readfah with swords partly drawn, but Sig and Godan stepped between them with folded arms. Faramir, after only a second's hesitation, joined them, and Talanzef's face twisted, mouthing the word "traitor" as their eyes locked. The standoff lasted only a moment, for the other Númenóreans stared at Readfah as if she had transmuted into a goblin, and did not come closer.  
  
At last she went limp, drenched with sweat, and in a ragged voice said, "I will not strike...I will not strike." Only then would they set her on her feet. Elrond held her as she looked back up at Talanzef, sheathing the knife with trembling hands. Her eyes still smoldered. She pointed at his heart.  
  
"I hate you," she panted. "You unworthy sack of..." her words became a jumble of curses; and to Elrond's horror, most were in Quenya, a tongue she had never spoken. No one did, any more.  
  
"This boy," she shrugged Elrond's hands off her and embraced Faramir's shoulder, "is worth the lot of you put together, and because you fear him, yes! fear him! you treat him as less than a scullion. He should be in your place! In the name of all that is just someone should indeed cut off your head! Stay far from me, horsemaster! Stay far from me or I will surely do so!"  
  
Readfah turned her back to him, unmindful of any answer he might have made, and walked stiffly and blindly away, her shoulders squared. Ux made as if to follow, but Elrond turned on him, his shining dark hair swinging around with him from the force of his motion.  
  
"Ne!" he snapped.  
  
Ux stopped, raising his hands in acquiescence, still too deeply in shock to be either offended or further surprised. He thought he understood Elrond's reaction; being a straightforward man himself, he could see a man, or for that matter, an elf, wanting to take care of his own woman. He could not know that what sped Elrond to Readfah's side was neither anger nor jealousy, but cold, premonitory dread.  
  
  
  
  
Many a league of waving grass, mountain and dell lie between the range of the mountains where Imladris lay, and the deep forests of Fangorn and Lórien to the South, but to one with the sight, distance was no barrier. There was a presence deep in the wood where the golden leaves did not fall until Spring, and long ago, rumor had spread among men that a Sorceress dwelt therein.  
  
Rumor often has a grain of truth at its root.  
  
Galadriel looked up from the scrying water and narrowed her eyes into a gathering East wind. Her hair hung loose, wild and unkempt as though she had not slept in days. Indeed no servant had been permitted past the gates of her private courtyard in over a month except to bring her food, most of which was left uneaten.  
  
'All goes well,' she thought. 'No longer does Celeborn hinder me with the weight of his reproach, for he is content to remain apart from me. My daughter begins to feel love for Ereinion Gil-galad, and that is well, for I wish her happiness. She need never know that her wedding to the possessor of Vilya is crucial to our protection, nay, our very lives. And as for that bloody-haired whelp of Maedhros, when she and the Peredhel wed, they will never know that her childlessness is my doing, and the Kinslayer's line will die out no matter what happens to her. I need not touch her to do what I must...'  
  
She plunged her hand into the silver vessel and brought up Nenya, which lay at the bottom, invisible to all eyes save her own. No one was ever permitted to disturb her Mirror, so the secret was safe from all but One. She could not repress an ugly laugh.   
  
"So we come to a battle of wills, you and I?" she said aloud. "You cannot touch me!"  
  
There seemed to come from the East a faint groaning sound on the wind, which only served to make her laugh again.  
  
"I will do whatever I must to defeat you, serpent! If it means dancing right on the edge of your foul abyss, I will do it! And if it means spelling those who account themselves my allies and even those whom I love, I will do it, for this battle I must win!"  
  
She slipped the ring upon her slender finger and raised her arms, her white garments billowing and snapping in the wind like the sails of a ship...  
  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
*Pay no attention, comrades.  
**Come, eat quickly, the horses are ready. (lit. 'in harness')  
***Damn! Where is my bow? 


	9. Chapter Nine

Author's notes:  
This chapter was hard to write. My goal at this point is to show the rising tension, confusion and frustration between the two kindreds that leads to the fall of Númenor. Readfah's personal story seems to get lost here, but I can't just let 1300 years pass without some kind of background!   
The next couple of chapters will, I hope, lead into more familiar territory. Those of you who love the Rohirrim as I do are going to like this story. More I cannot say!  
  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Nine  
  
  
  
  
Readfah had only seen Gil-galad wear the coronet of his office three times: once when he rode to the last battle, again when he received the first envoys of Númenor, and now. His face was drawn and serious, and he would not meet her eyes.  
  
"You know there was something strange afoot, you said yourself that you felt a heaviness in the air, as if it were about to storm," Elrond reminded him. Gil-galad shook his head wearily. He knew as well as Elrond that some wayward magic had touched them in the past few days; Celeborn's strange, overly light mood, his own sudden surge of feeling for Celebrían (though he admitted that he had felt that before, and it hadn't gone away) and the more obvious, if far more temporary change in Readfah, as if her father's spirit, at its angriest and most murderous, had ricocheted around inside her like a captive bolt of lightning. Whence it had come, and why, was still a mystery.   
  
"None of that will carry any weight with Mortal men! One thing only will prevent disaster - our laws prevail here. Have no fear for her, my friend, rather, concern yourself with what will happen to the alliance... Minastir allied with us because we have a common enemy, not for any great love for us. I don't have the freedom of saying 'good riddance' to them, as much as I would at times like to. It must be his choice to leave."  
  
Gil-galad sighed as he peered out of the tent. "They come. I take no pleasure in this, please know that. But I fear that all we will accomplish here today is the trading of one thorn in our side for another."  
  
  
  
  
The morning grew warm early, and the cloudless sky promised another dry, late summer day. Only small changes - unseen by mortal eyes - presaged Autumn, still many weeks away. Differences in birdsong here, the turn of a leaf there, the ripening of a certain berry...the elves were the only ones whose very bodies felt the smallest of changes. This morning, change lay heavy in the heated air, and everyone felt it.  
  
Most of the elves who had no pressing duty took to the trees, or perched behind the fluttering pennants marking Gil-galad's tent. The Northmen stood ranged around Readfah like a grim promise of retribution, a crescent of gold opposite the sea of dark Númenorean heads. To her surprise, Faramir stood beside her, his eyes red-rimmed, newly pulled threads on collar and sleeves where the devices of his rank and House had been sewn.   
  
Elrond stood to the king's right hand, staring straight ahead, keeping tight check on his anger. How dare they come here in their arrogance, and bait and bait and bait Readfah and her kinsmen, and expect them to remain silent forever? Celeborn stood to Gil-galad's left, all the light gone from his eyes. True to form, he expected the worst and was prepared for it.  
  
Readfah spoke first, and briefly. She did not speak of the provocation, but readily admitted that she threatened to take Talanzef's head off.   
  
"Do you still wish to do so?" Gil-galad asked.  
  
"No, my lord. Had I so wished, I would have done so."  
  
Ai, but she was blunt, thought Gil-galad, trying not to wince. He knew that whatever his decision, it would meet with disapproval from one side or the other. The Númenoreans were already muttering that it was unfair for him to judge a matter involving so close a friend; the elves maintained that only the king had the right to do so; the Riders just liked his honesty.  
  
He listened patiently to Talanzef's far longer account of the matter. He seemed more upset over the defection of Faramir than at having his life threatened, which made the elf-king wonder if he were not used to such threats. It was not hard to imagine him taking perverse pleasure in ripping the badges from the young man's overtunic, shaming him before his assembled troop. Feelings on the Númenorean side were mixed - natural affection for a likeable fellow-in-arms warring with a tradition of rigidly instilled discipline which Faramir, justly or not, had disrupted.  
  
From the horsemen's side came a soft, steady murmur as Readfah translated. To a man, they thought Faramir ill-done-by, and their silence was unnatural and forced. They were used to airing their opinions freely and loudly, and brawls, even at executions, were not uncommon.  
  
"I have not final authority in the matter of Faramir son of Orin," Gil-galad spoke at last, after a lengthy deliberation, "save to remand him to your martial court in Númenor. But in the matter of Readfah daughter of Maedhros, I deem that there has been no crime committed beyond some hasty words which have not been repeated and have since been repented of."  
  
"She threatened to take my head off!" Talanzef protested, above an angry rumble from his men. Though many disliked him, they were loyal, and stood behind him. "I might have known the prick-eared ones would band to defend one of their own!"  
  
"Aye! Especially one who warms the bed of a vice-regent!" jeered a voice from the crowd.  
  
Gil-galad bridled at the insult, and Elrond's eyes went black with fury, but before either could speak, and to everyone's amazement, the normally circumspect Bréalaf stood with raised fist and outthrust chin, and turned on the horsemaster. His deep, rolling voice enunciated each syllable to leave no doubt as to his profound disgust, even to those who did not know the tongue.  
  
" Min eares ista nic ordlice, ic willa bestand' Ælf-cyning ilcade'! Cearo ic hab' Readfah nic beheawa éower wierg'idel heafod, whaes modor asettet mid hunden! "*  
  
All eyes turned to Readfah. Hoarsely, she translated. "He says -his- ears are not pointed, and he would stand with the Elf king all the same."  
  
"He has said more than that!" some of the black-clad men called out. "What do you hide?"  
  
Readfah blushed, but met Talanzef's eyes unflinchingly. "I will not repeat it out of respect for both our kings..."  
  
"Hovnizh!** I will say!" young Sig called out impulsively, shouldering his way past the elders. He felt they had been silent far too long. "He says he is sorry Readfah did not relieve you of your damned worthless head, and your mother must have lain with a dog..."  
  
Readfah and Gil-galad simultaneously groaned while Hulwyf swatted at Sig in a halfhearted attempt to halt his tongue. Elrond bit his lip until he tasted blood but could not keep his shoulders from shaking.  
  
"You make light of this?" Talanzef shouted at Gil-galad.  
  
"I do not, sir!" Gil-galad retorted coolly. "All I can see is that we have come to an impasse. You have made known your dissatisfaction with our ways since your arrival. There is but one solution that will not brand you an utter failure in your prince's eyes, and that is to take all your men who feel as you do back to your settlement and choose there replacements who are more at ease with us."  
  
"And so you intend to do nothing with this...female?" Talanzef gesticulated at her with ill concealed hatred.  
  
"Of course I will, if you insist. She can be banished from Imladris."  
  
Ux growled an obscenity after Readfah's soft translation, but Gil-galad raised a hand for silence.  
  
"However, I should remind you that yet another scandal involving a woman, however different from the last, is not likely to sit well with his Majesty."  
  
"Cursèd Elf!" Talanzef jumped up with an indignant roar. "No justice shall we ever see from you!"   
  
He knew Gil-galad, and he would gloss over nothing in his report to Tar-Minastir. The horsemaster's reputation was already in tatters with the king over some mysterious and rumor-shrouded affair at the Havens of which he hadn't even been aware until it was over. That unawareness cost him a large fine and a severe censure from the king himself. This latest failure to get along with their elven allies was sure to bring about at best a ruinous demotion.   
  
"You have my permission to depart at any time," Gil-galad replied with the courtly yet maddening smoothness that was his trademark.  
  
"So be it, but I warn you, this is not the end of this matter. I may not gainsay you here, but my own king may withdraw his support altogether when he sees how we are used, and it will pleasure me to see the last of your kind!"  
  
Gil-galad merely inclined his head in acceptance, but in a way that left no doubt of his true feelings. Minastir was no fool, and was not known to go back on his word. As it was, it would be deep winter before any word would arrive from Númenor informing him of any changes of policy. In the meantime they would be rid of Talanzef and his nasally voice, and to Gil-galad - who, after all, still thought like an elf in spite of hundreds of years knowing the ways of men - that alone would be worth the trouble.  
  
  
  
  
The Númenorean troop was given orders to be ready to depart by daybreak. Talanzef had apparently decided that he would risk what was left of his reputation rather than to leave men behind who might, under Readfah's teaching, rise to supplant him. Already he had memorized his own highly colored version of young Faramir's treachery, to be presented with all sorrow to Tar-Minastir and the boy's father. He might not himself keep his position, but at the least, one of his loyal men would likely be chosen to replace him, rather than following the revolutionary Elvish notion of choosing a leader on the basis of merit. Faramir, not he, would be sweeping the stables under the king's watchful eye in a few weeks.  
  
Quivering with disgust, he watched Gil-galad, along with Readfah, Elrond, and Celeborn, sitting in council with those shaggy, uncivilized brutes from the Northern outlands. No doubt the Elf-king seeks to discover what use he can make of them. Grudgingly, Talanzef admitted, if only to himself, that in greater numbers they would make formidable allies indeed, if they could ever be forced to discipline. Their way with beasts was second only to that of the elves. Elves! Curse them all...what had they ever done to deserve to live forever? They weren't any better than they had to be, and many were much worse. In Talanzef's eyes, they were quite simply lucky, favored of the powers for some reason he did not and could not understand. Gil-galad, in his opinion, had been as biased as Talanzef had known any elf would be. Trust an elf? He would sooner trust an untrained pup with a dripping bit of fresh liver. Oh, yes, they can fight, and their hatred of the Dark One was unyielding. But they would as lief save one of their own as twenty of his. He had seen that for himself today.  
  
  
  
  
"We have no doubt as to your loyalty, Hulwyf son of Hegewyl," Gil-galad was saying, "And there is no doubt as to your fitness to do battle. But you have said yourself, your people are scattered, and under the chieftainship of many. Unless all who are of like mind should gather, and make their homes within a day's ride of here, or of Lhûn...I cannot see how..."  
  
"King's business it is to know when to send for men to fight. We live many leagues hence, yes, but we have learned a way to muster at need. We have ever fought the Dark One. We and our sons and our sons' sons are pledged to fight with you until he is no more."  
  
Ux spoke next. "It is our legend that Béma brought us the first of the White Stallions from over the Sea, and Readfah taught our mothers and fathers to be as kin with our horses. Not all our people remember her, but our clan did, and shall continue to do so. The arms of all our Houses bear the device of a white horse, and the green land from which he came, though each family has its own mark besides. From this time forth, our family will bear a token of red, for her hair, and so shall our shields be redº. This will be known to you as the mark of the Elf-king's riders, whereby you shall know us."  
  
Gil-galad was deeply moved. "My friends, I will hold you to no obedience, but only loyalty, for your people fight best without constraint. You shall be as raiders rather than soldiers, and will go to and fro at your will, and answer to yourselves. As for me and my House, if I do not meet death, I will account your people my friends forever, and we will account the Mark as a token of that friendship."  
  
He stood, and gave each the warrior's embrace. And the Elves who witnessed it knew that the word "Ridder-mearc" (though its meaning might change or be forgotten over time, as do all things that concern the sons of Men) would not die until long after Elves walked no more in the world East of the Sea.  
  
  
  
  
Late that evening, as the shadows disappeared and twilight deepened into dusk, Readfah left Elrond working with Gil-galad on the necessary dispatches to be sent to Tar-Minastir, and walked out under the trees. A thin sickle Moon hung high, just grazing their tops. Sighing, she began to pull herself up into one, when a familiar voice behind her spoke softly.  
  
"Do not do so, Lady, for then I shall have to speak louder than I would to be heard!"  
  
She dropped back down, and turned to face Faramir.  
  
"Aren't you in enough trouble already?" she whispered. "I thought you were under arrest!"  
  
"Nothing so bad...yet. Come, walk a ways with me. I would tell you something."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
He brought a finger to his lips, his dusky eyes flickering toward the lamplit tents. "I'm not going with my troop tomorrow."  
  
"You are not deserting?" she had the thought to whisper, for this was a crime indeed.  
  
"Shh! Come! I will tell you all when we are further away."  
  
Presently they reached the large clearing where Readfah had first met him, riding Kapla and impressing her with the grace so rare among his fellow soldiers. Her heart hammered, for she had grown fond of the young man, and had grieved over his loss of honor, however just it may have been in the letter of the law.  
  
She had yet another shock when she saw Kapla tethered nearby in a dark, wooded nook, tacked as for a long journey in Northern gear, and two more horses she knew belonged to Hulwyf's esquires, Losian and Efstan. She turned to him with fear and questioning in her face.  
  
Faramir spoke quietly and quickly. "The elder, Hulwyf, approached me last night, and offered to send me to his home with his servants. Wise father...he knew what they would do to me. My life in Númenor is over, Madam. Talanzef cannot afford to take the blame for another scandal. He is already in bad odor with our king...no one has ever really explained the death of one of Círdan's servants last year, only that his captains knew more than they were telling. It was a maiden, which made matters worse. We are not permitted to set foot in the havens of Lhûn now, by order of Círdan himself, and must sail from Harlindon. Talanzef would send his own mother to the gallows to save what little honor and position he has left, to say nothing of an insignificant lad who rides a horse better than he does..."  
  
Here his voice broke, and Readfah held both his hands in hers, determined not to show the pity she felt, for the pride of Westernesse was as hot in him as in any of his comrades.  
  
"So, he would use you to shift the king's eye from his own incompetence!"  
  
"It goes deeper than that, milady," he continued, when he had mastered his voice again. "There are many of our people who envy the elf-kin. Talanzef is but one. There are certain of our lords who rail against our forefather Elros, and who swear someday to take for themselves the deathlessness he rejected."  
  
"But such a thing is madness!" Readfah blurted out. "They can no more change from man to elf than a wolf can change into a deer!"  
  
"They think they can. They think that because the Half-Elven had a choice, that they should, too, even if they must wrest the life of the Eldar from the Valar themselves! I myself would not choose to live forever..."  
  
"Then you are wise for your years. But what has this to do with you, now?"  
  
"I will not go back to Númenor! Even were I not in this scrape, I fear with all my heart to go back. I will not watch as the rebels grow ever more hateful and overweening, and know that my children's children are doomed. I will leave it behind, and cast my lot with men who are not afraid to be men, or to die."  
  
"Not afraid to die, stripling?" drawled a voice from the shadows. "All to the good!"  
  
Readfah froze, and Faramir went white. Captain Gimizor stepped out from the darkness into the little light that was left. His sword was drawn. "I would hate to think that as well as a traitor I was bringing a coward back to face his father and his king. Yes, I watched you bring your horse here. I let you do it, the more serious a charge to set upon you. I knew you would try to escape, but you shall not."   
  
He turned his eyes to Readfah, and the hatred in them did not diminish, though an uglier fire waxed hot. He had despised her ever since the day she had humiliated him before his men. "As for your lady friend, she wants to watch that she makes no sudden moves, if she does not wish to learn my opinion of what women are for."  
  
"You!" Faramir's voice was hoarse with loathing. "You are the one who killed Círdan's maidservant!"  
  
Gimizor shrugged."Perhaps. Perhaps not. There were quite a number of us after all. Elf women are terribly...weak."  
  
"Does Talanzef know?" Faramir whispered.  
  
"I know not and care less!" Gimizor grinned. "He has dug his own grave with his weakness and indecision. Minastir shall demote him to a stablehand, if he is lucky. But you, my young friend...I believe we will see you upon a scaffold." He smiled again, as if the thought pleased him greatly.  
  
There was a sharp hiss, and they all looked up to see Ux running swiftly toward them with sword unsheathed, feet as noiseless as an elf's on the soft turf. He was clad only in breeches, the braids of his pale hair dancing across his bare back, his eyes a blue fire.  
  
"Ridan, cnihtling!"*** he cried to Faramir, "Ride! They will not let you live!"  
  
Gimizor spun on him with a furious oath, his sword raised. Ux crouched, teeth bared like an animal snapping a challenge, his own heavy, rune-scored blade an effortless extension of his big right arm.  
  
Readfah tried to urge Faramir away, but he broke from her and drew his own sword. "Nay, lady! I will not let another man fight for me!"  
  
Gimizor sprang toward her...outnumbered, he had mind to seize her as a shield, but she pulled her own blade, short as it was against a sword, and stepped aside. There was a clash, a cry, and a gurgle, and all went black for her for a moment.  
  
When her eyes opened again, she was leaning on Ux's chest, and Faramir was opposite them, staring at the ground, his eyes wide and his sword dark with blood. She looked down, and saw that her knife was unstained.  
  
Gimizor's body was still twitching, lying sprawled at Faramir's feet. His head, however, was nearer to Readfah, staring up at her with a look of slight surprise, as if someone had told him his boot was unlaced. He looked more human dead than alive, and she was shocked to find herself feeling sorrow that things had come to such an end. Readfah had killed orcs, but never a man or elf, and she kept looking at the head, 'here,' and the body, so inexorably 'there', and trying to speak, but words would not form on her lips.  
  
It was Faramir's first kill of any kind, and he was numb with shock, the idea coursing through his mind that now he was traitor indeed. No matter how wicked Gimizor had been, no matter how wrong, he had still been Captain, and Faramir had been bound to obey. His first kill, one of his own people. No! No longer! Now an exile...a fugitive.  
  
"We heard talk," Ux panted. "They planned to kill you before you reached your home. Now will you ride?" Ux's tone was more exasperated than anxious. "No! Leave the sword here. We will provide you with another! Go! Go! Now! Efstan and Losian are waiting for you! You are one of us now! Ride!"  
  
Faramir took a last look at Readfah, and embraced her quickly, "I shall never forget you, Madam!"  
  
"Nor I you, child. Béma guard you until we meet again!"  
  
Faramir vaulted onto the horse, and met the other two at the bottom of the Eastern pass. They were soon out of sight, and Readfah bowed her head and wept. Ux took her hand and urged her away.  
  
"My lady, there is no time for that...he will soon be missed. You must not be found here! Come!"  
  
  
  
  
"He is dead?" Hulwyf asked grimly. "That is well. Are they pursued?"  
  
Readfah had expected the camp to be in a turmoil, but the horsemen were surprisingly calm. "No," she managed to choke. "No, he was alone."  
  
Hulwyf grunted a reply. "They talk much around us. They did not bother to lower their voices, thinking maybe we did not understand. They planned to kill the boy somewhere between here and their ship, and take back the tale that it was he who killed the maiden at the harbor. I know not what they meant by that."  
  
"I do," Readfah nodded, "go on."  
  
They all looked at each other uncomfortably for a moment. It was Ux who spoke at last.  
  
"They planned to...misuse you... then kill you to stop your tongue, and swear that the youth had been guilty, of both your murder and that of the other woman. They were going to execute him and swear he tried to escape. That way they could restore their good names with their king and no doubt be free to continue their crimes."  
  
"Gil-galad must be told," Readfah shivered. Suddenly she wanted Elrond, badly - wanted the luxury of weakening, even for a moment, in his arms.  
  
As if in answer, he swept to her side and embraced her without a word. Behind him, Gil-galad stood, and to their surprise, Talanzef. Bringing up the rear was Sig, who at Hulwyf's word had run to the main camp as soon as Faramir had escaped.   
  
"We have had our differences," Talanzef spoke first, squatting opposite Readfah and looking directly at her, "but Captain Gimizor was a rebel, and asked for his own death. The boy did it, say you?"  
  
"Yes," came the muffled reply from Elrond's arms. Elrond himself glared at the horsemaster, but Talanzef only gazed into the fire.  
  
At last he looked at Gil-galad. "We will take our leave at dawn. I shall be sorry to disappoint our king, but..." here he sighed aloud, "...I do not think Men and Elves can live together."   
  
He rose and addressed Readfah for the last time. "I will hold to your teachings, Madam. That much I can say. There are worthier men to hold this office than I."  
  
He turned as if to leave, then back again.  
  
"We will not pursue the boy. If ever you see him, say that Talanzef son of Tezal begs his pardon."  
  
He bowed formally, then was gone. None of them ever saw him again.  
  
  
  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
*Lit. "My ears point not, but I would stand alongside the Elf king just the same! Sorrow I have that Readfah did not cut off your damned head, you whose mother lay with dogs!"  
** The "s" word. My invention, from the Ukrainian "hovno" = filth, manure, or the equivalent in vulgar slang.  
***"Ride, youth!"  
ºErkenbrand of Westfold carried a red shield in the Battle of Helm's Deep, LOTR, TTT, Book 3 Chap. 7 "Helm's Deep." I have taken the liberty of implying that all of the descendants of Readfah's "adopted" family will do so. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Author's Notes:  
I have found it very difficult to write this chapter, as I didn't want this story to become an epic of the Second Age. I really did not want to just write, "and so, a thousand years went by, and..." I wanted to illustrate as best I could both the happiness and the sorrow of living forever. Critical review and suggestions (of all chapters) welcome.  
  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Ten  
  
  
  
Memories, for mortal men, are fleeting things, subject to flights of the mind, and live only as long as their bearers.  
  
Readfah smiled as she recalled the days of Ux's wedding. She and Elrond were the guests of honor, and they lingered for many long days under the bright canopy of Autumn leaves and a sun almost as warm as that of Summer. The bride, Edgifa, was a tall girl, daughter of a dairyman whose family dwelt near the village, as gold of hair and blue of eye as her groom. Her family was delighted and half frightened at the prospect of entertaining two of the folk long thought to be descended from gods.   
  
Two large and heavy laden blue roan mares, daughters of Wimowë, followed in the wake of their dam and Han, bearing many gifts for the new couple. The family had been stunned almost to silence at the richness of these; yards of fine cream linen cloth, a half hundred grey foxskins, a silver teapot (Ux had told her that their people were very fond of tea) and five pounds of precious tea leaves that had been mysteriously introduced into the baggage by Gil-galad, who refused to admit he had done it and equally refused to say where he had obtained it. Readfah suspected he had secretly bartered something of great worth to one of the nomadic tradesmen who often passed on the great road flanking the Misty range. Gil-galad had then departed for his own home, sending his friends sincerest regrets, for he had been quite disappointed that he could not attend.  
  
There were other herbs, both for healing and for cooking, grapeseed oil and full wineskins. There was a stone jar of spikenard ointment, as a personal gift to the bride, and for Ux there was a large rainbowed crystal with slanted edges, like the ones he'd so admired in Elrond's house, large enough to set in the wall of his own house if he so desired. Last, a gift for the house, a magnificent wood carving of a rampant horse, made by an elf named Avor, who had designed most of the archways and pillars of Elrond's house.   
  
"Readfah," he said later, in a state of shock when he was made to understand that the two blue mares were gifts also, "these are things for rich men, I..."  
  
"You are rich, my friend. Never question good fortune!"  
  
  
  
  
Thúr's house was the largest in the village, and the entire family had gathered there to greet them. Having two such visitors was even more exciting than the wedding itself, and the chatter and laughter and cries of "Wes hael!" were nearly deafening. Yet, there were many children running to and fro, and Elrond and Readfah looked at them and each other with almost painful longing. "One day..." ran their shared thought, and they smiled upon the little ones, never tiring of them, and sank to their knees to speak with them so they would not be frightened.  
  
The elders who had never seen Elves before were quiet at first, until, upon introduction, Elrond greeted all the men with a firm warrior's embrace and the women with a handkiss. That, coupled with his silky, dark hair and exotic, chiseled features impressed them to no end. Readfah - whose deep auburn hair and sea colored eyes were themselves the subject of many a stare, covert and otherwise - hugged and kissed all of them indiscriminately. She told Edgifa that Ux was as a brother to her, and that she was now her sister. She could have said nothing more calculated to win the bride's confidence, for family was everything to the horsemen of the North.  
  
The great house was built, as Hulwyf had once said all their houses were, entirely of wood, save for the forest of tile chimneys. The outer boards had weathered to a clear, pale yellow, like wheat, with dark knots, and had never lost the spicy smell of newly cut lumber. The door was tall, with a heavy frame, and the top came to a sharp point. The roof sloped steeply and was heavily thatched with sweet grasses. The chimneys were all in use, for the weather, while fine, was still chill in the mornings and evenings.  
  
When they entered, Elrond made the surprising discovery that he had never walked upon a wooden floor in his life. He had known of them, of course, but among his people floors were of stone, clay tile, or cobble. His face was a study as he stepped cautiously onto the boards, his eyes growing alarmingly wide at the hollow sound and darting side to side as if he expected them to tip.  
  
Indoors, the walls were made of the same wood, only darker, and shiny as if painted with honey. Sconces resembling bowls of clay on shelves held candles that illuminated the darker corners. The main hearth was much like Elrond's own, built of weathered rock, and large enough to roast a sheep. There were no divisions between kitchen and sitting and dining rooms, as there would be at Imladris; no walls divided the lower area, only pillars here and there to support the great beams that undergirded the upper floor. Later they would discover a veritable warren of small sleeping rooms abovestairs, with beds tucked into the walls and closed in with doors, like a number of wide clothespresses. A tiny hearth stood in the middle of the outer wall of each of these rooms, explaining the great number of chimneys.  
  
There before the main fire was the cream-furred hide of the bull the Northmen had taken on their first visit to Imladris, which launched a lively discussion of the methods of preserving furs and leather. Elrond recalled the day Readfah rode into the valley for the first time.  
  
Readfah laughed. "I was covered in every kind of dirt...fish scales, deer insides, and worse. In the Ice Country it was too cold to notice, but when I came South...it has always been a wonder Elrond did not chase me away! The fur could never be cleaned, but the leather was still good and made many fine and useful things. I regret there are no click-deer this far South. And seal...their hide is waterproof."  
  
She suddenly noticed the company had gotten quiet.  
  
"You lived in the Ice Country?" Thúr's wife Norga asked in a voice filled with awe. "We had always heard that the people there are demons!"  
  
"Hush, wife, do not speak so foolishly!" Thúr chided her gently, yet his face too, was grave, and he looked over to Readfah as if for reassurance.  
  
"They are not a friendly folk," she said, " as we would account it, though they are not enemies. They are generous, though, and will not permit a stranger to starve. The men are very proud and aloof, and speak very seldom to their women, who will visit and bring food. The women taught me their ways of tanning skins and preparing food, how to build a house of sod, or even snow when I had to travel after game. I was there for nearly...I was there a very long time, and in all that time I think men spoke to me maybe a hundred times at the most, often when I hunted, usually to tell me I needed a husband to hunt for me. They are few and their lives are very short, and hard." Readfah pulled her gaze from the fire, where she had come dangerously close to losing herself in bleak memories of the loneliest part of her life.  
  
Before things quieted down too much there was a sound of greeting at the door.   
  
"Faramir!" cried Ux as the door flung wide and a tall, cloaked,dark-haired figure strode in and embraced Ux like a brother. Behind him was a young woman carrying a nodding, dark-haired child on her hip. "Danica! Come, come! It's growing cold. Get by the fire."  
  
Readfah and Elrond rose and turned to them, and great joy bloomed in Faramir's face. Readfah felt his tears run down her cheek as she held him close and gently kissed him.  
  
"I thought never to see you again!" he sniffed, though his smile was wide.  
  
"I see you have gone and gotten a wife, boy!" She teased, not sparing the girl a bit of her bright and curious stare. She was a pretty girl, of medium height and generous curves. Her hair was dark gold and her eyes were slanted and pale blue.  
  
"This is Danica, my wife," Faramir was nearly stuttering, "and our daughter, Tana."  
  
Danica hung back, shy, though she could not turn her eyes from the elvish guests. Faramir had said that the undying ones still dwelt among them, but never had she thought to see them so close. She felt warm and cold at the same time when Elrond bent to her hand with a smile and a few kind yet heavily accented words. Readfah, too, had a core of nobility that was just as intimidating in its way, though it was not as apparent. Even though she was less daunting than the elf lord, and she spoke the language far better, she still walked with the grace of a deer and had eyes as compelling as a hawk's.   
  
The little girl woke, and Readfah remarked to herself how much like Faramir she looked. Among the Northmen there were few heads among them so dark of hair, even fewer than the red-gold ones said to belong to the descendants of a single clan. The child gripped Readfah's finger with a good show of strength and looked up at her with her father's smile.  
  
"Danica and I were wed not long after I came here," Faramir said, then added almost sorrowfully, "I am sorry that we did not send word, but we dared not, then."  
  
They talked long into the night, and were in no hurry for their beds, for according to custom, the wedding would take place close to sunset the next day. Only the bride and groom to be were ushered out early, to separate houses, by the elders of both clans.   
  
"Madam," Edgifa stammered to Readfah as they departed, for she was still in awe of her, "I am honored that you stand as one of our witnesses."  
  
"The honor is mine."  
  
She smiled shyly once again, bowed, and started out the door, but then turned back. "I want to thank you, Madam, for coming to our wedding. Ux loved you once, and I am happy it was so. It made a man of him, where when we were young he was his father's despair!" She allowed a smile to break through at that, and she tremblingly took Readfah's hands. "Still I am happy for all of us that you are loved by another, a great lord of the Ælfenkind, and," here Edgifa stifled a giggle, "so well-made he is too! I wish you all happiness, Lady."  
  
"As I do you, but you really must call me Readfah, if we are sisters," Readfah replied warmly. She wondered absently, as the women left, if Ux had ever told her of the episode with the arrow.  
  
  
  
  
They spent the night in beds of unmatched comfort - smooth linens and goosedown as fine as any the Elves ever made. True enough, they felt a bit closed in in the cupboardlike bed, but soon slept well and woke refreshed.  
  
Two servant women brought soap and rough white towels, a great empty copper tub and many buckets of steaming water, which they placed next to the fire."You may use these according to your own custom" one said, "but we usually stand inside the tub and use the water a little at a time, so as to have plenty for a good rinse. Our soap is...harsh...to those not accustomed to it. If you wish, one of us will be happy to help you dress your hair, Madam."  
  
She thanked them, but told them no, that her toilet was the simplest kind. Elrond watched, amused, as they left. "You will indeed be beloved of my household, Readfah!"  
  
"I'm not accustomed to being waited upon!" she groused. "Thúr is head of his clan now, so it's not unusual that he should have servants, but very few others do. And even then, they're not really servants, but members of the family who work in exchange for a home, more like a vassalship."  
  
"It's not far different with us," Elrond shrugged.  
  
"I still prefer to do things for myself. though I will admit, I'm grateful someone else carried all that water up those stairs!"  
  
"I am too," he agreed, and came to join her as she undressed, pulling off his own clothes.  
  
  
  
  
The day was one of long and tedious anticipation, with no sign of movement in either house. Then, at the normal time for afternoon tea, a horn sounded, echoing back and forth across the village. Voices shouted, and grew louder. Music began, at first awkwardly, but then in concert, and the sound was at once merry and noble, as though for the wedding of a king. Their voices pitched and rolled like a ship on waves stirred by storm, and indeed, set amid the waving grasses of the prairie it seemed that Thúr's house was a ship asail under a sky so deep blue it too looked like the sea.  
  
Readfah and Elrond were swept into the crowd of revelers who were making their way to a thatched building in the center of the village, which served as a meeting hall in times of peace, or for gathering of warriors at other times. It was large and empty, save for a silk-draped table in the center, toward which they were urged. On the table stood two candles, a bowl of water and a smaller bowl of oats. Behind the table stood a short pillar with a metal bowl upon it, and within it burned sweet smelling herbs.  
  
Ux stood before the table, motionless, his crimson-robed back to the assembling company and flanked by Sig and Godan, his nearest unwed kinsmen. Thúr and Norga, draped in white, stood behind the table. Presently, Edgifa, wearing a gown of deep green, was escorted in by her father and two elder brothers, followed by the women of her family, who appeared to be protesting. (There was a legend that the first of their people were Béma's children by a woman he had kidnapped). The young woman's hands were tied with a slim red band, and she was veiled so heavily she had to be guided to stand beside Ux.  
  
Even with the gift of Elvish hearing, it was next to impossible to make out the exact words of the ceremony over the din, which never abated. The couple was sprinkled with the water, then the oats. Readfah saw Ux remove his bride's veil, untie her hands, and speak a few words (which made Edgifa blush deeply). He placed a ring on the first finger of her right hand, then knelt before her. In horror, Readfah watched as Thúr drew a thin dagger, gripped Ux's ear, and with speed born of practice pierced it through the upper side. Blood trickled down his neck, but he did not cry out or flinch. Then, Hulwyf stepped forward and placed a small gold band through the fresh wound, and clamped it together with an instrument of some sort.  
  
When he rose, there began a cry for him to take his bride, and for a brief moment the two Elves' eyes met as if to ask, "Here?" But in moments, Ux and Edgifa were swept out the door and down the path to Thúr's house, where the doors stood open and to which every table in the village had been carried and laden.   
  
"Do they ever stop eating?" Elrond wondered.  
  
"I don't think so," Readfah answered in quiet amazement. She had breakfasted heavily, to please her hosts, and could not imagine taking another bite. She looked around her and realized that the bride and groom were nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Perhaps it would be best if we were to...retire upstairs for a time."  
  
"Ah yes. There are other hungers to satisfy, are there not?"  
  
"Wench!" he whispered, and there was far more than mere desire in his eyes.  
  
Elrond took her hand and they went upstairs. Before long they were lost in their own love, and only briefly did they realize that they were quartered next to the new couple. So from that corner of the house there rose that night a blended song of joy, the topnotes in the very Music of the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
Memories, for elves, are everlasting and living things. Every moment of the past is as only yesterday, and as clear as a breath ago.   
  
Readfah walked through the familiar halls of Elrond's house, glancing at this stone and that, remembering with clarity the days when they were set. She never passed the tall archway in the Hall of Fire without looking at the many-paned windows, added when the process of making water-clear glass had been perfected. Sunlight spilled through onto the floor, creating a slow dance of bright dapples among the stones. The touch of her hand, over time, had worn a smooth hollow in a clear green stone embedded in the corner of the mantel nearest the hall. The patina of age had settled gracefully on the House at Imladris, that Elrond had named "homely" in its kindest sense...homelike and a place of rest and refuge. No vast and imposing gilded palace was the lamplit house beside the Bruinen. Magic of a quiet kind had infused itself into the walls, and change, when it came, was slow and more often was that of growth rather than decay.  
  
Outside, time had slowed also. Old trees were still flexible as if in their prime. The little spring behind the high terrace still flowed unchangingly from its crystal lined source, though the stones were a little smoother now. The river had neither diminished nor widened, and the horses still grazed the wide swathes of grass both in the valley and on the ridges above.  
  
Readfah remembered the tents that had dotted the clearings like green and brown mushrooms, and the big one with the pennants that had been Gil-galad's. All gone now. Those of Elrond's house who did not choose to live in the main dwelling had built for themselves houses among the trees, similar to those, it was said, in the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn to the South in Lothlórien. The old dwelling places had greened over, and gardens grew where the great fire pits and the rough wooden bathhouse once stood.  
  
The voices of the elves had not changed. Elrond; passionate, melodious and deep. Gil-galad; clear as a battle cry, yet still charged with humor even at his most serious. Taenon; singing his words merrily as he went about the kitchen tasks. Leithel; soft and lilting, speaking to the plants in her herbary. Galadriel; when she and her family were there, brought with her an elusive note of the sea. Celeborn;  
sometimes whispery, sometimes resonant, always deliberate, as a voice will sound coming from one who thinks profoundly before he speaks. Celebrían; whose speech was as a delicate rustle of new willow leaves on a cool Spring morning. Readfah herself; the lively, rolling tones of her mother's people, still bearing the merest touch of Laiquendian staccato in a tenor as rich as velvet, as strong as leather.  
  
Imladris, like Lórien and the Havens, had become not only a refuge, but a haven of preservation. Time slowed there, to match the slowness of the Elves' aging. It was a good thing, but the price was either further withdrawal from the world, or great sorrow. Outside the barriers, the world seemed like a ravaging hurricane, ever changing, moving forward. Almost, an elf could watch a stalk of corn grow trembling before his eyes, ripen, die, and drop its seed for the next to take root.  
  
She walked out into the sunshine of a day that matched the first day of her life in this valley. Cold, but bright, with a breath of warmth more a promise than a reality. She passed the rows of fair stables without stopping to speak to the horses within, as was her custom. Following the river, she walked a short way until she came to a number of low mounds covered with frosty white flowers. She sat down on one, and for a long time looked out upon the Bruinen, sparkling in the Sun, and allowed her mind its freedom.  
  
Kings had come and gone. Friendships with mortals kindled, ripened and rotted, and grew again. She thought of the great rebellions, Númenor growing ever prouder and more envious of the Elves, then repenting and renewing alliances, then failing in their trust yet again.   
  
And in all this time one thing among the Secondborn remained steadfast. Sometimes it took the shape of a strip of cloth tied about an upper arm, sometimes an embroidered device on a tabard, at other times a sigil upon a warrior's helm or his own body. Whether only twenty, in times of doubt, or a thousand, when hopes were high, the men of the Mark remained true to their promise, even if only a splash of red paint dotting a shield was the sign.  
  
Readfah tried and failed to push from her mind the sadder memories, but they were too woven with the happy ones. Not only weddings and births, but illnesses, funerals and bouts with enemies crowded her thoughts. Ux, for one, had lived to see his great grandchildren and had clasped Readfah's hand with a smile upon his very deathbed, and so had Faramir, but many of the children of that clan had died betimes. Some met their end through mischance, some died of strange fevers even Elrond could not cure, while others, luckier, had gone to war and honored the clan with blood. Men and women both went to war when the orc raids began again, and always within the Circles of the Dead at the end of day lay at least one warrior of the Mark.  
  
She fought her tears, and again failed, when the names and faces of all the mortal children she had known and loved began slipping through her consciousness. Tall, stern warriors, strong and lovely women, living and dying even as she sat by the river; they were all her children, for she had as yet none of her body. She knew the time drew closer, either of ultimate defeat or great joy, and then she and Elrond could begin the next phase of their lives.  
  
Then, hearing the sounds of visiting Northmen's voices as they were welcomed at the Western pass, she whistled, and as if she had been waiting nearby the whole time, a bright red two year old filly marked liberally with white came bounding up, enthusiastically nosing at Readfah, who laughed through her tears.   
  
"Hello, Ahliehha*! Have you been waiting for me?"  
  
She slid from the mound where she had been sitting; the mound where Wimowë's bones now rested these many hundreds of years. With the filly trotting happily beside her, she started back toward the house.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------  
* Ah-lee-AY-ha. From the proto-Rohirric "ahliehhan" - "to laugh at." This filly's facial markings gave her a look of perpetual comedic one-upmanship. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Author's Notes:  
Another very difficult chapter. But I think my readers will begin to find themselves on more familiar ground very soon.  
I am probably jumping the gun, historically, by introducing the term Éothéod in reference to the nation of Northmen, but I don't care. I got tired of calling them just "the Northmen." As to the history of the name Riddermark...my invention. I do not mean them to seem interchangeable. I see "Riddermark" (the later definition) more as "United States" and the Éothéod as "Americans".   
Éoghan is pronounced 'Evan.'  
I have used dates this time, as my skills are not equal to double flashbacks in third person!   
Enjoy, and please review!  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Eleven  
  
  
  
3431 S.A.  
  
Readfah sat unmoving, watching from her perch upon Ahliehha, now a six year old mare. She watched, sadness hovering over her like a cloud while Elendil's troops drilled ceaselessly in the meadows of Imladris. Elendil the Tall, they had named him, related somehow to Elrond, but mortal, a chieftain of the last remnant of the Faithful. She recalled the days, one hundred and thirteen winters ago, that heralded his arrival, the last days she was still able to close her eyes and pretend for a while that war was not once again on their very doorstep...  
  
  
  
3318 S.A.  
  
Gil-galad paced angrily to and fro before the fire in the main hall of Elrond's house, while a tense silence had fallen.   
  
"Perhaps if you..." Elrond ventured this far and was cut off abruptly, not for the first time that evening.  
  
"No! I have had enough of mortals! I'm sorry, Readfah," he said quickly, seeing her stricken face, "but even your people seem to have forgotten us!"  
  
"You never held them to an alliance," she dared to remind him, "even when they offered you one. And they have not forgotten us. It's just that there are scarcely 100 warriors of the Mark left anywhere near where the old village stood." But she hung her head just the same, for few indeed of the Northmen remembered her, and fewer still bore the Mark, now considered among those who had not known her to be yet another foggy legend of their grandsires.  
  
The Elven king grunted, chastened, but no less angry. "Idiots and sons of idiots! Do they truly think they can force the Valar to change them into Elves?"  
  
And now, rumors flew daily. Ar-Pharazôn, whom Gil-galad had named "a very son of arrogance" planned an armed invasion of Valinor itself!  
  
A slender, golden haired elf, standing tall before the fire, turned and spoke for the first time. In manner he reminded one of Celeborn, though he was fairer to look upon than anyone present. A soft shimmer, as if of reflected light, surrounded him, and his voice was faultless. This was Glorfindel, who had made his home at Imladris for many years, though he spent much time abroad in the land. Readfah only really got to know him a few years after Faramir's passing.  
  
"My lord," he began, and Gil-galad ceased his pacing. "There are still a great number of the men of Númenor who are our allies. Many have refused to return to the isle..."  
  
"That will start yet another civil war," muttered Gil-galad.   
  
"Indeed," Glorfindel's brow quirked, marring for an instant the perfection of his face. "I wanted to remove for a time to their settlement at Pelargir. The men there seem more interested in fighting the true enemy that squabbling among themselves for something that, in the end, they cannot have."  
  
Gil-galad waved him off wearily. "Go if you must. T'is like using a strawberry for a paperweight, but I suppose we need all the aid we can get."  
  
Glorfindel turned to Readfah, who read his request in his face before he spoke it. "Take what horses you need. The usual rules, of course...let them choose."  
  
He bowed, but did not reply. Even after all this time, he had not developed the informal friendship with her, as the king had, that would have allowed him to call her Readfah, yet 'Madam' seemed inexplicably stiff. He compromised with silence.  
  
"I shall not be gone very long," he said to Gil-galad. "A matter of months."  
  
Gil-galad nodded approval, and Glorfindel bowed a thanks, then was gone, seeming to take much of the light with him. That seemed to call an end to the council. Elrond leaned back and sighed.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it any more," Gil-galad snapped.  
  
Elrond's face said "who, me?" before his lips moved, and Readfah snorted. The king turned on her in a fury, then, deflated, contented himself with a withering "Bah!" and went upstairs.  
  
"When is Celebrían coming back?" Readfah asked, as soon as they were alone.  
  
It was Elrond's turn to snort. "So you were thinking the same thing, were you? I still find it hard to believe that she has the wherewithal to calm him down, but she does."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, the king is hardly inexperienced, and unless she is very discreet indeed, Celebrían had no lovers before him."  
  
"You were my first," pouted Readfah. "And only," she added hastily.  
  
"And you were mine. That's quite a different matter."  
  
"Had you considered that he might love her?"  
  
"Of course. I have also considered that she made him wait 300 years for her. I have no doubt that was her mother's doing, out of some misguided notion that an unused sword remains keen. I've seen too many rusty swords to believe that piece of nonsense, but it sounds like Galadriel."  
  
Readfah wrinkled her nose. "I wonder if I will ever truly learn to like her."  
  
"Don't fret...I'm still working on it. Ah... she means well, and I think after all, she has a capability of seeing a larger picture denied the rest of us. If she's insufferable sometimes, well, that's part of her. I used to think Celeborn was a great bitter pill, until one day I realized that no doubt I am as difficult for some to take as he was to me. Suddenly he didn't seem quite as bad as all that any more. But we were talking of Celebrían. I of course don't see her as Gil-galad does. All I see is a pretty girl who will do her mother's bidding until the end of Arda. They will wed, they will bond, she will bear him children, and thus it shall be until something else nasty comes along to divert our attention."  
  
Readfah smiled, but her smile was rueful.   
  
"It all sounds rather dull. doesn't it?"  
  
He rose from the great oak chair he had been sitting in and came to stand beside her as she looked out on the starry night sky. When she turned to him, he grazed her cheek with his sensitive fingers.  
  
"You haven't changed your mind, have you?" he asked, half teasingly.  
  
She shook her head, and as he had since he had first known her, Elrond marveled at the color of her hair in the firelight. He buried his face in her neck, and she stirred softly against him. When he looked back up, he noticed her still-pensive look.  
  
"What are you thinking of, my dearest?"  
  
"I was wondering what it would be like to have two husbands," she bit her lip.  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
She pulled away from him and laughed. "Two husbands. I thought perhaps I could wed with the king, too. I couldn't stand the thought of his life ever becoming dull."  
  
"Readfah!" Elrond scolded. "Incorrigible, maddening woman! Come back here!"  
  
"No. You come here," she edged toward the stairs, mischief in her face.  
  
He was longer of leg and faster, and caught up with her at their bedchamber door at the head of the stairs. Their soft laughter was muffled as the door closed behind them, and soon the daytime rhythms of the house smoothed into those of night.  
  
  
  
  
The fleet of Númenor had been building for some time, against what the Elves had never really been certain. Gil-galad had grown increasingly frustrated with the vacillating nature of their relationship with him, never knowing from generation to generation what to expect. Finally he had stopped offering to strike formal alliances altogether. "What is the point, when we all know that they will be broken?" Elrond and Celeborn, in agreement for once, had on one occasion argued spiritedly that any treaty was better than none, and that some day perhaps the Númenoreans might start thinking like the Elves they wished to become, and look beyond their own lifetimes and learn from their history. Gil-galad had merely given both of them a look of disbelief, groaned and left the room.  
  
Yet, despite some of the darker times in which many an elf took foot in hand and quit Middle Earth rather than face another thousand years of uncertainty, Gil-galad never deserted the few who had begun to call themselves The Faithful. They had remained friends with Elves, defying even laws made by the rebellious Kings forbidding the speaking of any Elvish tongue, or to teach their children such. They took Elvish names for themselves in spite of the adoption, by the rebels, of the old tongue of Westernesse. And many refused to return to Númenor at all, preferring to remain in exile in such strongholds as they might make for themselves in Middle Earth. Pelargir, of which Glorfindel had spoken, was one of these, and possibly the strongest in terms of population.  
  
Readfah did her best to follow the multiple strands of political and military intrigue that wove the giant web beneath which they labored, but had to admit it was beyond her ken. She pitied Elrond, who was forced by circumstance to endure it, when he was no more inclined to it than she was. She knew he would far rather be with her as he used to be; gathering herbs while teaching her to do so, helping her with her work by riding to and fro on a colt she was training, or best of all, riding with her to Riddermark to visit their friends.   
  
Strangely, though perhaps not so strange, given the way mortal language changed, was the way the Northmen often referred to their nation as the Riddermark. Once it had simply meant a tangible mark, signifying that their ancestors had known Readfah. Now it meant "the nation of riders." It would have been more apt to say "nations" for they were scattered much as they were when Maedhros first set his infant daughter in front of him on a horse. Indeed, Elves who had reason to travel North had a saying; "we are in the nations," meaning that they were in the Riders' territory.   
  
The men of the Éothéod as they now were known, were as always independent and proud, and even Gil-galad admitted they were constant in their loyalty...when they could be found. At this time, a new young leader had emerged, a tall, lean, and fell warrior named Éoghan who had warred relentlessly against the marauding bands of orcs who grew larger and bolder by the day. These servants of Sauron seemed incapable of learning their secrets, for as few as the warriors were, no orc ever came back from that land, if once it ventured very far in.  
  
As in the Elder times, when Readfah was a child, the warriors adopted the custom of blackening their faces below their eyes, keeping the Sun's glare from blinding them, and making them appear even more fierce. Indeed, they had become so, for the orcs had been merciless, and the cost had been more than they could bear. When Readfah heard of the bravery of Éoghan and his warriors, and learned from Gil-galad's scouts that they camped but a day's ride North of Imladris, she painted her face likewise, discarded her usual grey cape for a green one, took up a spear, and rode alone to meet them.  
  
Éoghan had been one who had scorned the 'legend' of Readfah even while his family's crest bore a red emblem, until they stood face to face on the plains above the Hithaeglir. Trembling in dismay, as if he expected to be struck down, Éoghan dismounted and offered her his horse, then bent his head to the ground.  
  
"The thread of loyalty runs true, even in those who say they believe not," smiled Readfah, bidding him rise. "Know this, friend, I am no spirit, and cannot smite you without a blade. But there still dwell among you the deathless ones, who are not gods, but are as men are, though we do not die. Those of your people who account themselves my children have the friendship of the Elvenking, this and no more. In return, we seek only that you stand against the Dark One and his servants, in your own way and under no one's command."  
  
This Éoghan readily promised. Readfah had observed that he bore the pierced ear of a wedded man, though no ring was there, just a curiously fashioned loop with a bit of black horn laced on it. She saw the same on a few of his men and asked what it meant.  
  
"It is the sign of widowhood." Éoghan's face grew dark. "Grethe and I had been wed less than a year, and she carried my child. Orcs took her. No trace was found of her. I wear this in her honor, and will not wed again soon."  
  
Readfah thought of the many weddings she had attended, and of the great love the wives and husbands of her mother's people bore for each other, and she could not stay her pity. Uncomfortable with her tears, the men had stood silent, their own hearts wrung, until she mastered herself.   
  
She swore to them then that as she had not forgotten their fathers and mothers, so their sons and daughters would not be forgotten, and if the day came when the Elvenking rode to war, he would account it a privilege if they wished to ride with him. No greater honor could he bestow, in the reckoning of the men of Riddermark.  
  
They said among themselves "She loves us indeed as a mother, for none but a mother would love her child even though the child forgets her." Yet, because she looked no older than most of them, it was hard for them to remember just how long she had lived, and harder still not to become companions to her, for her ways were still merry as a girl's, when there was time to be merry.  
  
  
  
It was Éoghan and his men who came to Imladris the day before Gil-galad held council, and the next day, heralds arrived announcing that the lady Galadriel and the lady Celebrían were a day's ride away. Gil-galad was a living welter of mixed emotion, and Readfah laughed out loud when she heard him order Celeborn in a tone that brooked no response, "You keep her busy!"  
  
Readfah was happy for her own sake that she had company of her own, and would be excused for the most part. For as much as Galadriel might be grateful for the loyalty of the Éotheod, she still had not learned one word of their tongue, nor had her daughter. She could not grow used to their coarse ways, and as yet saw no reason to try. She was civil, yet distant to Readfah, and even the many hundreds of years that had passed spawned no friendship between them. And Readfah, gifted as she was, still could not completely read Galadriel's inscrutable face. She knew the Lady, as they all called her in common, had many secrets, and she was versed in many sorts of magic, but she read no malice in her, and that puzzled her, for why then the careful mask of secrecy?  
  
Celebrían was another matter. Her love for Gil-galad was an open book, and though her timidity was a thing of the past, she was still quiet, but more in the way of her father; thoughtful rather than shy. Her mother still ruled her, but Readfah was happy to see that Celebrían had found a way, inside herself at least, to be her own woman. The few times they had spoken together, the Princess had impressed the Mistress of Horse with her beauty, good sense and keen intelligence, but a little niggling finger of doubt made it's home on the latter's shoulder. Celebrían smiled often, but Readfah could not recall ever seeing her laugh.  
  
  
3319 S.A.  
  
There came a day when all news stopped, and a leaden sky rolled over Imladris, bringing a cold rain and thunderstorms which did not stop for several days. At first, they thought the foul weather delayed the messengers, then the thought that perhaps they were waylaid, but then many strange things happened.   
  
Birds by the thousands descended on the valley, and roosted in the trees in sodden silence. The horses no longer responded to Readfah the way they normally did, and acted confused, as if they no longer understood her. It grew very dark, winds blew from unaccustomed directions, and Galadriel took to her bed as if ill and would not receive anyone.  
  
A lone rider, one of Círdan's, arrived early one morning in a hail of rain and sleet. Readfah, up before most of the household, saw him coming and shouted orders to her assistants. She then removed her smock and ran through the tunnel connecting the stable to the cellars of the house, and up the stone stairs into the washroom and from there to the hall.  
  
"Elrond!"she cried.  
  
Half frozen, the messenger dismounted his horse right on the terrace in front of the house and begged entrance at the top of his voice. Elrond came down the steps two at a time and opened the doors himself. Gil-galad emerged from his quarters, enveloped in a robe, and hastened down the steps, his feet bare.  
  
"Númenor has vanished, sir," the courier gargled, and elf though he was, collapsed in a heap upon the flagstones. Ice was in his hair, and had nearly blinded him. Before they could get him to the fire, they were arrested by a hoarse yet deep and hauntingly lovely woman's voice from the stair rail above.  
  
"It has gone into the Sea," Galadriel said, and she descended to them.   
  
Elrond turned to the shuddering messenger. "That is so, sir...we received word a fortnight ago," he confirmed, between grateful sips of mulled wine.  
  
"I have had dreams that a great wave overtook Pharazôn and his ships," Galadriel said, "and many have died. Ereinion, the weather will be clear on the morrow. You must ride to the Sea as soon as you can. War comes swiftly now. One thing only I ask of you. I must return home, and spend what time I may with my lord Celeborn, but I wish Celebrían to remain here if she may. Soon a day comes for which we have all looked."  
  
Gil-galad, taken by surprise not only by the entreaty, but that it was spoken as such, and not as if granted by her wish alone, readily agreed, and spoke with more gentleness than was his usual wont.  
  
"You know that Celebrían has a home with me, no matter where I am."  
  
But she was not speaking only of her daughter's wedding. Rather, her most pressing desire was the joining thus of the powers of Nenya and Vilya. To this end she had bent her will for over a thousand years, and it would now only be the matter of a few years and a few words to bring her work to fruit. Then they would be safe. Then all Elvendom would be safe, and she could rest in the very bliss of Aman itself, even as she remained in mortal lands. For her rebellion Aman was denied her, but if things went well, she would need the Valar's forgiveness not at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
3431 S.A.  
  
And so Gil-galad, in spite of his earlier words, befriended Elendil and his sons, Anárion and Isildur, and they and all the warriors of the Faithful came riding to Imladris. In full panoply of black, silver and sable they came, joining with the Elven host at the sea, and came into the valley of the Bruinen on the morn of the New Year. More than any gathering of soldiery Readfah had ever seen, even of the great numbers she had seen in her father's day, they came, and they were grim and fell-faced. Once again, the vale became a forest of tents, and the voices of strange men echoed in the sunrises of the three years they remained as they prepared for the final battle.  
  
Beside them Gil-galad's Elven host rode, fair as the dawn and with the strength of trees, gifted with grace, clad in vermeilled armor that shone as brightly as their eyes, overlaid with the deep bright blue of the King's House. Celeborn, Glorfindel, Gildor, Erestor... names that recalled the Elder Days, and the ceaseless struggle of life for the Firstborn in Middle Earth...riding four abreast as brothers, singing with voices almost too sad and sweet to bear.  
  
Unremarked save for those who loved them, or fought alongside them, were Éoghan's grandsons, great-grandsons and all the men of Éothéod who were of an age to fight. They came to Imladris clad the same as the Elven troops, by Gil-galad's order, save for the red horse heads upon deep green tabards. They numbered only fifty or so, but were remembered later by Elendil's men as stalwart friends in time of need, and despite their many differences and frequent arguments, became as brothers to one another in the face of the enemy.  
  
And Elrond was at Gil-galad's right hand, bearing the starred standard of his House, silver, white and blue. Readfah sat upon Ahliehha and watched him and could almost believe she was once again riding Wimowë, and Elrond was coming home to her instead of making ready to ride away. A new horse had chosen him just last year, a fine stallion of unsurpassed speed and grace, whom Elrond named Luinon, for his strange color; white in some lights, almost blue in others. He could not look often at Readfah, sitting so still upon the great red mare, the only motion the long, fiery mane blowing in the wind, for he felt a strange heaviness in his heart, as if she might be gone when he returned. But she could scarcely take her eyes from him, as fair as his Maian blood could make him, strong and tall and beautiful, and their love-bond, such as it was for now, shivering between them.  
  
"When I return," he whispered to her nearly every night, as they lay together in the dim firelight, "When I return," and he would place his trembling hand meaningfully upon the swell of her belly and she would groan and give herself to him, a shower of pleasure and tears, and beg Eru himself to bring Elrond back safely so that the promise in his eyes might come true.   
  
  
  
Soon they would ride; the great host of the exiled Edain and the Elves their allies, to make war on Sauron in his own realm, and lay siege to Barad-dûr if they might. Elrond had called it the last great alliance of Elves and Men, and though many times the shadows might rise in mortal lands, there would be no such riding as this again. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Author's notes:  
Wow, it's starting to be a long time between chapters, though this is a bit short! I really hope you all are enjoying my story. Now I can say with confidence that the...err...dirt... hits the fan very soon now!  
Details of routes taken, numbers of soldiers etc. are all invented.   
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter 12  
  
  
  
  
Elrond heard a noise in the library early one morning as he passed by, and went in to investigate. At first he saw nothing, but then a flicker of movement behind a large pile of books caught his eye. Readfah looked up from her seat at a corner table, trying vainly to arrange the books back in order, and gave the job up as hopeless. She looked at her feet as he walked over to her and kissed her. She would not look at him.  
  
"What is this? I have never before seen you here...what are you reading?"  
  
Readfah blushed scarlet, and swallowed hard. "Nothing. I was reading nothing at all."  
  
Never had she lied to him, but she looked so guilty that Elrond frowned as he shuffled through the books she had been holding.  
  
"Why, these are nothing secret...some old histories..." He knelt beside her. "Surely you know that everything I have is yours. I care not if you wish to read my books." He almost laughed, until he saw the tears spill and her hands shaking.  
  
"Readfah, whatever is the matter?"  
  
"I - I can't read!" she buried her head in her arms and sobbed.   
  
Elrond thought of the thousands of manuscripts he had read, and the not inconsiderable number he himself had written. What she was telling him seemed unthinkable at first, but then he thought, how should she have learned to do so, living the way she had? Maedhros would have been the only one who could have taught her, and it probably hadn't occurred to him, preoccupied as he was with other matters. The Laiquendi had no letters, and obviously neither had the Azke-mau, the men of Forochel.  
  
"What were you doing with these books, then?" he asked gently, stroking her hair. "They have no maps or illuminations."  
  
Came the small-voiced reply, "I was trying to teach myself."  
  
"But...why? After all this time? I just assumed you could, and took no pleasure in it."  
  
She could not answer. Her face and eyes were so red from embarrassment and crying he thought she might have done herself an injury. He held her close for several moments.   
  
"Come," he said at last. "I will teach you."  
  
"Oh, you must not...take time for such a matter as this!"   
  
"As keen witted as you are you will learn in no time," he assured her. "Your grandfather devised the letters we use today, and they are marvelous in their simplicity..."  
  
He took a bit of parchment and a quill, and in a quick, neat hand reproduced the Fëanorian letters for her. After a brief explanation of why the letters were arranged the way they were, he began to sound them out. In two hours, she had memorized all of them and written them several times herself. Her efforts were much blotted, and Readfah's fingers would not look the same for days, but what she had produced was readable.When he opened a book of verse and indicated a few simple lines to read, her eyes grew big as she read the words aloud.   
  
He took the parchment again and wrote a word at the top. She looked up at him.  
  
"Readfah?"  
  
"That's right," he smiled, and she jumped up suddenly and kissed him. Grabbing another square of parchment, a pen and some ink, she bolted from the library and disappeared down the long hallway.  
  
Elrond had seldom seen her so overjoyed. As always, her happiness warmed his own heart. Later, he chanced to look from the library window and saw her sitting on a bench in the garden, repeating the lesson to a pair of big, yellowhaired horse soldiers who sat before her like respectful schoolboys. Of course, he thought. Tovig and Held...brothers...Éoghan's great grandsons. Neither had the men of Éothéod had knowledge of reading and writing until now. Now, on the brink of war, they would begin to have a history. Somehow it seemed fitting, thus. He would not have thought it possible, but when he turned away from the window at last, Elrond loved Readfah all the more.  
  
  
  
  
At the very same moment, Gil-galad too, was watching Readfah from a window. Unlike Elrond, he turned away with a sigh. She was such a vivid reminder of what they were leaving behind. Though her mortal blood was very evident, she was the very heart of what it meant to be an elf...questing, curious, alive. He loved Celebrían, of course, but there was something about Readfah he merely very much liked, and that was so much more comfortable.   
  
He looked about him at the sparely furnished room, furnished as he had wanted it, and his heart was seized with a sudden dread. How I wish we need not leave! he thought wildly, throwing himself onto the bed as he did when he was a boy and troubled by anything. The smooth coverlet caressed his cheek, but he was not soothed. What was this? Tears? He sat up again, thankful no one had witnessed his weakness. He wiped his eyes and lay still for a few moments.  
  
He had never been visionary, but as the evil day grew closer disturbing dreams began to invade his sleep. Most often, he saw a fiery abyss yawning at his feet, but before he could react, something struck him and his vision went white, and all sensation was drained from him. Most often, he would wake then, but sometimes the blinding whiteness would suddenly give way to a pastoral scene. The meadows of the Imlad Ris, perhaps, in the days before anyone lived here. In none of these dreams did he ever see anyone, or hear anything. Gil-galad was terrified.   
  
But this was the first time he had ever shed tears over it. He thought of Readfah in the garden, showing a bit of paper to her friends. She was doing what he wished he could - being brave. Of course she wasn't riding into the face of the Dark One, as she still called Sauron, but Gil-galad thought perhaps those left behind had it worse. There would be so much loss of life, and the pain would be theirs to deal with. Elves were meant to live! Not that Men were not, but they died anyway sooner or later. Yet even they were meant to grow old peacefully, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, and pass peacefully into whatever new life Eru had in store for them. And Elves - no Elf should ever die. It was theirs to be as one with the ebb and flow of the pulse of Arda. What had happened to change the courses of their lives so?  
  
Gil-galad wished he could be more like Elrond, who was still somehow able to take joy in what time was left to them. For Elrond, food still tasted good, the air still smelled sweet, his lover's touch still brought pleasure, and music held no discordant notes.On his last trip home, he had found the old silver harp that Elrond had played as a youth, and had it restrung, thinking to delight his friend. And it had, but soon he wished he had never brought it. Even the liveliest of tunes seemed melancholy.   
  
He left his room then, and went out into the sunshine. He could not concentrate on the activity around him; the officers' voices crying orders, the clatter of the forges upriver, the cadence of hoofbeats in the meadow beyond the house, where Readfah's green-clad assistants drilled horses and riders again and again. He ignored salutes and warmer greetings alike and walked up into the woods as if he had a purpose there. When he knew he was alone he sank to the ground and wept. He might be able to ride forth with some measure of kingly bearing if he could but set aside the dinning in his ears that told him he would never return.  
  
  
  
  
Galadriel felt the One Ring speaking to her at the same time, with the advantage of knowing her enemy, at least magically, better than Gil-galad did. She knew what Sauron was doing to the king, and she also knew there was little she could do to prevent it. Gil-galad wisely refused to wear the Sapphire, but he also refused, the fool, to bear it on his person. How did he expect to go to war with Vilya buried at Imladris with a halfbreed horse-maid to guard it? He had said that the protection of the valley was more important than his own life, and that Vilya would never leave that valley until the One was unmade.  
  
And he chose Readfah to keep the blue ring safe, and not her own daughter to whom he would be wed! Gil-galad may not be versed in magic, but he knew Galadriel well. And whether it sat well with Galadriel or not, Readfah was far more likely to stand up to any enemy than was Celebrían, and far more likely to succeed.  
  
She shrugged, and looked out from her perch on the great flet outside her apartments, over the hazy golden treetops. Glorfindel had come with a detachment of three thousand Númenorean exiles several weeks ago, and he and Celeborn had departed for Imladris with nearly every male Elf of Lórien. She had watched him go without a tear, saving her grief for the privacy of her rooms. He had not looked back, and that stung worse than his departure. O Celeborn...she followed his long-cold trail with grey eyes softened with her love for him. What has become of us? Of all of us, that we would even for a moment forsake what it means to be Elves?  
  
If all went well, they should be arriving there today. There was so much that was now out of her hands. But if she had all she wanted, what then? What good was a safe home if all the ones we love lie dead at the gates of Barad-dûr? Her eyes hardened again. What's done is done. I have gambled and I may yet lose. When Celebrían weds, the first bond between Nenya and Vilya will be fixed, and the Realms will be safe. A son will ensure invisibility and a daughter immutability. A complicated spell, but one even Sauron could not break or prevent. Oh why couldn't they have wed ages ago? Gil-galad's reasons at the time had been sound, but now, with things so close to perfection, his insistence on waiting seemed calculated only to annoy her. Waiting was all any of them could do now. Turning in to her suddenly and strangely feminine household, Galadriel could tell them nothing more than that.  
  
  
  
  
The farewells had been said, the last walks taken. The forges were silent and the air no longer smelled of smoke. The Sun was yet an hour from rising when Elendil departed with his sons, and Gil-galad's horse troops sat their restless mounts waiting only for the Númenoreans to clear the barriers before they could be away. The footsoldiers had departed hours ago and they would all meet on the other side of the Anduin before the day was over.  
  
Gil-galad's face was hard and deeply lined as he watched them ride past in the grey light, the pennons bearing the arms of countless houses fluttering and snapping in the cold wind. He sat astride an unmarked blood bay as grim of countenance as himself. Nár he had named him. Fire. Beside him as ever, on his right, Elrond bore the Standard of Gil-galad - silver stars spangled upon bright blue silk. To his left, Celeborn and Glorfindel waited for their own companies, in order to move out alongside them. Ranged behind and to the sides of the king were the men of the Éotheod, on great horses, clad in green tabards and cloaks, red horses' heads embroidered over their hearts.  
  
Behind them, an unhappy Readfah sat, Ahliehha motionless beneath her. She was clad in the tabard and arms of the Éothéod and bore an ash-spear, though she wore no armor and her head was uncovered. She shivered, though she had endured cold much worse than this. She hoped they would turn and speak to her one last time, and at the same time hoped they would not. This last morning as they left the house had been almost too much to bear. She had read the terror in Gil-galad's eyes, and found to her most profound sorrow she could say or do nothing to ease it.  
  
Celebrían had bid first her father, then Gil-galad goodbye, then had broken down and had to be taken back upstairs. Readfah, in horsemen's fashion, kissed everybody as they departed. When she came at last to Gil-galad, he surprised her by taking her hands, pressing his lips to both palms, and then, looking into her eyes for a long moment, gently kissing her upturned mouth.  
  
"I had to do it," he tried vainly to cover the break in his voice with an attempt at humor. "I couldn't go to war without knowing why my comrade smiles all the time."  
  
The moment passed, and Elrond, whose only reply was yet another smile, took her in his arms and kissed her more deeply, but pulled back before he made matters worse. He found that he could not speak.  
  
"I love you," she said. She took Gil-galad's hand as well. "I love all of you. I wanted to say thank you. I never thanked you for taking me into your house. I will do all I can to keep things safe for you."  
  
It was Gil-galad's turn to be speechless, but Elrond embraced her again.  
  
"You are my beloved Readfah, and this will always be your home," he said, and stroked her face with a gentle hand before turning from her at last.  
  
  
  
  
And now they were riding away. Readfah held back her tears until Elrond's and Gil-galad's horses began to move off. They did not look back after all, and she knew precisely what this moment was costing them. Tovig and Held, riding behind them, did turn and wave goodbye before following, and a wave of fresh pain washed over her.   
  
"Nic beseo'eft, min bearnes," she said softly. "Fahrth'u Éothéodias hael!"*  
  
She followed as far as the meadow where, so long ago, Ux and his kinsmen had made their camp, and watched as they wound their way up the ancient path to the Eastern cliffs. The Sun was up now, and burned bright and cold into her eyes. Glad of the excuse to watch no longer, she turned toward the house. There was much to do, and the responsibility was all hers now. Almost absently, she wondered about the strange ring entrusted to her with such secrecy. It was safe, she made sure of it, but of magic and it's props she knew nothing. Maybe Gil-galad could explain it to her, when he returned.  
  
  
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* "Don't look back, my sons." "Hail and farewell, kinsmen of horses!" (This last is a very rough and very much invented translation. I could not find any other.) 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Author's Notes:  
Sorry for the long wait, but changing work schedules, etc. As always, I hope you enjoy my story. I think some questions will be answered in this installment.  
Say, does anyone know if Orcs are immortal?  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Thirteen  
  
  
  
An elf's life takes on a rhythm over the centuries; quiet times, war, travel , change, renewal. For Readfah, the time after the departure of the Alliance was a time of great change in the pattern of her experience. Those few, mostly women, who were left in the house turned to her for direction, and she became the mistress of a house of Noldorin Elves in spite of her distaste for formality that echoed both Elrond's and Gil-galad's.  
  
Celebrían, on the other hand, had been reared in the tradition of the great Elven Houses, and, as she was to be the wife of the King, it seemed to Readfah that she should take precedence.  
  
"No," she said graciously, "for this is Lord Elrond's house, not mine. Dear Readfah, you must really get used to it! Elrond says you very nearly built this house with your own hands, so it is yours as well as his."  
  
"Too much to do," grumped Readfah. "I can't see to all of it. I don't even know how."  
  
"You must learn to delegate responsibility," said Celebrían easily, her silver hair rippling as she sat down opposite Readfah. "This is not nearly the large household it will become when they return. I shall go with Gil-galad of course, to his own home when we are wed."  
  
A strange feeling passed over Readfah. No one but Gil-galad, Elrond, and she knew where the Sapphire was hidden. A question had been asleep in the back of her mind...if Gil-galad took the ring with him when he left, where would that leave Imladris in the scheme of things? Would it still have the barriers? She suspected that Gil-galad meant to leave the ring with Elrond when he returned to the Havens. His last words on the subject plagued her; "You must not tell Celebrían where it is." Her natural question, "Why?" had been forestalled by his finger on her lips. "No, do not ask. Some day, heaven forfend, you may learn more of this than you wish to know. These things are a mixed blessing. I don't understand the half of it, but I know I must keep it safe. This I am depending upon you to do. Don't wear it, or handle it unnecessarily, and should we not return, tell only Círdan where it is hidden. No one else."  
  
Something told her Galadriel was at the bottom of the mystery, and she kept her peace, but the simple, earthy part of her could not understand how he could keep anything from the woman he loved. Sharing their deepest secrets had been the core of her relationship with Elrond. Somehow, as she watched the Lady's daughter glide across the floor like a beautiful and graceful wraith, it was as if Galadriel herself was present in the room. She could not reconcile that similarity with Celebrían's obvious desire to be friendly. She tried to remember that Gil-galad loved her in spite of what appeared to be mistrust, and thus there had to be a part of her that only he was privileged to know.  
  
  
  
  
Readfah had asked if there would be any dispatches, and Elrond had told her not to expect any, as the fighting would be fierce, yet he would see to it if opportunities arose. Gárulf, another of Éoghan's great-grandsons and one of the best riders Readfah had ever seen in her long life, then had volunteered to act as a dispatch rider between Sauron's realm and Imladris. Readfah had with her own eyes seen him raise a stumbling horse with a gentle uplift of his hands, and with whispered word give heart to even an exhausted animal. Elrond had agreed, though he hated to lose even for short periods a single warrior. And so Readfah, a month into the Siege, began looking East.  
  
No scouts had remained to patrol the borders, and for a long time Readfah rode almost to exhaustion, for very few of the elf women could both ride and handle weapons. But within a month, there arrived unbidden a number of women, wives of the Éothéod, to volunteer to help guard the home of the elf-lord. Their faces were warpainted, and their shields were red. Most had been sheoldmaegden... shield maids, trained in exactly the same way as their brothers, with no quarter given or allowances made for their sex, save that when they wed, they no longer traveled to war for the sake of the children they might bear. Gil-galad had probably discovered by now that about ten of his Mark riders were women. These would be unwed, and by their silence and smooth faces, would have been taken for young esquires.   
  
The eldest among them, a tall woman with a single silver braid reaching to her waist, rode up on a handsome grey horse, and acted as their chief and spokeswoman. Unable to find the entrance, as she had been warned she would not, she directed her followers to camp nearby until scouts found them. When Readfah rode up on them at last, they had been there two days.  
  
"Are you she who is called Readfah?" she called in a clear voice that reminded Readfah of Gil-galad's, only a touch higher pitched.  
  
"I am," Readfah nodded, with an unspoken word bringing Ahliehha to a halt.  
  
The woman dismounted and dropped to one knee. "At your service, Modoréothéodias!"  
  
Readfah could not get used to displays of vassalship for the life of her. "Oh, do rise," she blurted out, a note in her voice that was almost impatience. Modoréothéodias... Mother of Horsemen? That sounded almost like the title some primitive Men had given her when she yet lived among the Green Elves, when she brought to their starving tribes horses with deformities or incurable injuries, to use for food. She caught herself staring at the mounted women with dismay. That would not do, she thought, and bid herself smile.  
  
Fortunately the tall woman did not wait to be asked any questions. "I am Brinhaw. You know my sons, Tovig and Held, and you knew my grandsire, Éoghan the Merciless."  
  
Readfah's smile was now one of pleasure. "Merciless? I had not heard that one!"  
  
"The name was bestowed upon him by orcs," Brinhaw said bluntly. "We are here to give you any assistance you see fit to allow, Madam. Our husbands will return here, if they return, and it would be fit to greet them here. We are able swordswomen and riders, and we await your command."  
  
Brinhaw had given the speech, but it was Readfah who was a bit breathless. "Follow me, then," she said, and turned Ahliehha into the barrier and started down the path.  
  
Even the most stone faced of them gasped in awe as the valley became suddenly visible. At least the ring is still at work, thought Readfah, enjoying as she always did the wonderment of newcomers. She led them past the rows of half hidden treehouses near the falls, and the cottages that were similar, but earthbound. Coming out from the forested bottom they drew their breaths sharply anew at the sight of Elrond's house. Modest in comparison to some of the great houses of the Elder Days, it dwarfed any house the Éothéodias had ever built, and they immediately judged Readfah to be a great Queen of Elves.   
  
"Nay, ladies, this is the house of Elrond, vice regent to the High King Gil-galad. The King's home is much greater still, and near the Sea, though he spends much time here. His wife-to-be dwells here awaiting his return as well."  
  
When asked what relation she herself was to the King, Readfah blushed. "None at all. I am Lord Elrond's betrothed." Funny, that was the first time she had ever said that, and the words sounded strange. Lord Elrond...betrothed...it was both strange and delightful.  
  
"Then we are all ladies in waiting," Brinhaw guffawed, and Readfah winced until she saw the woman's merry grimace which told her that she knew her own wordplay to be dreadful. I like her already, Readfah grinned.  
  
As they neared the house, a few of the elf women came to greet them, and Readfah could not help but remark to herself the vast differences in the two groups. If at first it seemed too improbable that they should ever get along, Readfah was soon reminded that in wartime, all women who had men to love had much in common.  
  
  
  
  
It was summer again before Gárulf appeared at the borders, to his delight to be greeted by his own wife and escorted into the valley with as much delight by Readfah herself, for the news was good...as good as it could be.  
  
"The Dark One is besieged, and we have suffered but little loss," he eased himself down into one of the great chairs in the small dining hall. He had been set upon by the women, elf and mortal alike, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, and had enjoyed a warm bath and a long nap. Now, Siddona herself insisted on serving him the evening meal with her own hands. Readfah, not for the first time, missed Taenon's cheerful service at table, and his musical voice. The master chef spoke little and her gracious, formal manner had never suited Readfah, though the food itself could not be faulted. She remembered Elrond throwing a breakfast roll at Siddona one morning in an effort to get her to smile, while Gil-galad, no doubt wishing he'd thought of it, laughed until the tears ran. All this succeeded in doing was shocking her back into the kitchen where she remained closeted for the rest of the day.  
  
Gárulf quipped that he might easily get used to such pampering, smiling at his wife, Frida, who stroked his long wheaten braids as he ate. Readfah was anxious for news, but did not press him. Catching her eyes, he realized his own cruelty.  
  
"The King is well, and so is the Lord Elrond," he said hastily, "and your father, milady," he nodded to Celebrían. We are slaughtering orcs at such a rate, Madam, it seems a pity they can't be eaten."  
  
Celebrían coughed politely and turned pale, while Readfah chuckled. A pity he could not stay long. A few days, perhaps, and he would be gone again. But for now, they would enjoy him as they would a fair day after a week of storms.  
  
  
  
  
The news Gárulf brought through many turns of the seasons was ever the same; Sauron under siege, long periods of quiet, as if he were building orcs with his own hands and loosing them when he felt he had enough. There was a strange power that ebbed and flowed about the fiery mountain, and kept the troops from resting. Men complained that they could not sleep at all, and Elves were disturbed with nightmares that seemed to them real whether they kept their eyes open or not. Gárulf himself seemed overly quiet, and dreaded to return to the battleground far more than usual.  
  
Readfah rode with him to the path, as was her custom, but instead of his usual cheerful farewell, he turned to her and gripped both her hands painfully.  
  
"Readfah, I did not wish to frighten your household, but as you are its head, I must not keep this from you. There is a sorcery at work in the Dark One's land, far greater than we supposed."  
  
Readfah could not betray the secrets of the rings even to so dear a friend, and she hated it. "Gil-galad suspected as much, but would not speak of it."  
  
"He has become fey, and speaks little these days. You would scarcely know him. This war has changed all of us, but the King is no longer the same at all. It is as if the devilry has touched him, as if he has taken it unto himself to spare the rest of us. I do not like it, Readfah. I am not yet an old man but it seems as though I have been at the foot of that mountain for a hundred years."  
  
"So it will seem, when fighting alongside elves. The King will not keep you against your will, for he will not swear mortal men to his service."  
  
"We have so sworn of our own will, and will not desert him until our usefulness deserts us! But see, Readfah, we have been living six years now in the evil land, and we fear greatly that if something does not happen soon it will become a part of us that will never wash clean."  
  
Six years. A blink in time for her. A very eternity for those young men.  
  
"I must ride. If I do not return, all the blessings of Béma on your house."  
  
He caressed her face briefly, and was away.  
  
  
  
  
A day came that started out as any other fine day, but within minutes had become unbearably hot. Midsummer was long past, well past time for mornings to be this warm, and the valley had always been cooler than the surrounding land. Now late blossoms seemed to wither even before fully opened, and young fruits wrinkled and dropped unripe. Readfah's ears, attuned as always to the most minute shifts in the collective mood of her great herd of horses, picked up a wave of nervous whinnies that did not abate. She called them toward the house, but as on the day when the news of Númenor's fall reached the valley, they were slow to obey.  
  
Just as Readfah thought things could not be much worse, Galadriel arrived, unannounced, with an escort of two elf-lads deemed too young to go to war. She was grim and spoke little, and barely greeted Readfah civilly before bidding her daughter to come with her to her accustomed room.  
  
"Nice manners..." muttered Dryarrin, one of Readfah's assistants, in a voice laden with sarcasm. She was a young woman of mostly Wood-elf parentage who never had much liking for "the Lady," even though many of her people now made their home in Lothlórien.  
  
"Please don't start anything, Dry'," Readfah cautioned, even as she herself stared up the steps in amazement at Galadriel's bold rudeness. "It's better she doesn't speak...I have more of her attention than I wish at any rate!"  
  
"Listen!" Dryarrin's dark head jerked toward the door. "Is that thunder?"  
  
"I hope!"  
  
They opened the great main doors to a gust of wind that took them by surprise. Readfah had never seen a desert...but Elrond had read some poetry that spoke of the hot, dry winds that sculpted the sands into wondrous yet deadly shapes; deadly, for they changed the landscape so that a traveler might easily become disoriented and lost not far from his own door. Readfah thought of the verses and shuddered, for it appeared that Imladris would be buried in the selfsame dust. Yet again, within moments, it stopped, and the thunder rolled again.  
  
Then all was still.  
  
Readfah and Dryarrin scarcely had time to look at each other when Galadriel emerged from her room, a frightened Celebrían behind her.  
  
"Readfah! I would speak with you!"  
  
Readfah bristled with dislike. Arrogant, snobbish...  
  
"Very well."  
  
Quite deliberately she passed the staircase, walked over to Gil-galad's accustomed chair and sat in it, by so doing forcing Galadriel to come to her. Dryarrin grinned until Readfah shot her a warning look.  
  
"I will see to the horses, Madam," she said in a stilted tone that would have convulsed Readfah at any other time. Right now she was just too angry.  
  
"Thank you, please do so."  
  
Dryarrin could not resist a low bow, and Readfah took a deep breath and studiously ignored her as a seething Galadriel descended the stair as regally as her offended dignity would allow. She was accustomed to having her way, but in this house, with this...this affront to Elvendom seated before her, she must needs defer, and she did so with little grace.  
  
With a slight motion of her hand, Readfah indicated the chair opposite, then folded her hands and assumed an attitude of interest.  
  
"I will come directly to the point. Gil-galad entrusted a ring to you when he left."  
  
By neither word nor gesture did Readfah betray yea or nay. She studied her opponent impassively and did not take her eyes from hers for an instant.  
  
"A gold ring, set with a sapphire," Galadriel continued, her discomfort increasing, though she did not show it.  
  
There was a long silence. Cursed whelp! Galadriel raged within.  
  
And for the first time since Readfah met Galadriel, she was fully able to read her face. She blinked, twice, and her heart went suddenly chill.  
  
"And what of it?" Readfah spoke at last, and Galadriel exhaled sharply as if she had for some reason been holding her breath.  
  
"You must, no, I ask, that you let me have it."  
  
Readfah snorted at her audacity. "Why ever should I do that?" she almost barked. "I have the King's instructions concerning that ring, and in no wise did he name you!"  
  
"Then he is a fool!" Galadriel spat back. "None of you understand how important it is!"  
  
"Then I suggest that you wait until he returns and make your request of him, milady. For I will not betray Gil-galad's trust even at sword point! I swore to him..."  
  
Galadriel no longer bothered to conceal her disgust. "Ah, yes, the House of Fëanor is well known for oaths...and madness! Your own father..."  
  
"You will not bring my father into this discussion," Readfah said coolly, though her heart raced.  
  
Galadriel smiled as if she knew she had hit home. "Your own father was the maddest of the lot! He took no thought of anything but that accursed oath...he killed innocent people with his own hands to fulfill it, even children! And if that were not enough, he seduced a mortal girl into becoming his lover because no elf-woman would have him!"  
  
And despite all effort to remain calm, Readfah snapped back. "I notice that you were none too afraid of him when you offered to buy your kinsman's freedom with your hips!"  
  
"One will do what one must," Galadriel spoke through clenched teeth, "to save the life of a loved one!"  
  
"He wouldn't have you at any rate," Readfah replied, the momentary lapse past, "so the question is moot. And of the sapphire I will say no more. You must talk to Gil-galad when he returns."  
  
Galadriel's patience broke. "Fool!" she shrieked, "Gil-galad will not return! I have seen his fate! He will not return!"  
  
"No!" Celebrían, who had quietly descended the stair during the heat of the argument, wailed aloud. "Noooooo!" she burst into tears and collapsed on the bottom step. Her mother whirled around, immediately ruing her words, but it was too late.  
  
"I don't believe it for a moment!" Readfah said hotly, even as she rose to comfort the sobbing princess. "And if it were so, you are doubly treacherous, Lady! To know him dead and to try to steal the ring from his heir!"  
  
Galadriel was silent, and suddenly Readfah knew the truth. As she held the keening Celebrían in her arms, rocking her as she would a child, memories assailed her like the fiery wind that had scorched Imladris this very day. Her tears fell like a rain with no hope of ever seeing the land grow green again. Gil-galad, dead! Nevermore to see those merry bright eyes, or to hear the clear ringing laughter, or to know the warmth of his brotherly embrace when he came on one of his many visits. Save for Elrond, Readfah had loved no living person more than she had Gil-galad, and now he was gone.   
Galadriel passed them on the stairs, seemingly unmoved, but with that regret that always came to her when the spell that bound her was at its ebb.  
  
  
  
  
When it was all over no one, not even the surviving mortal soldiers, could mark the passage of their time in Sauron's unholy realm. A few at a time they came, most of them on foot, for many horses had been killed. Readfah tried to listen to their stories, but they were too many, and contradictory. The only common thread was that Gil-galad had indeed been slain, and so had Elendil - both of them fighting Sauron himself, who, though possessed of some sort of overpowering magic, was overthrown at the last himself. No, they told her, they did not think Elrond was dead, but the last they saw of him he was running from the fire pits screaming the name 'Isildur' at the top of his lungs. The weary soldiers could not tell her more.  
  
So it was true - Gil-galad was dead - and there would not be even a scrap of a garment left to enshrine in his memory. Aeglos, the great spear, had been consumed like a stick of kindling as it pierced Sauron's body, said one of his Captains morbidly. He could not stop talking about it, and Readfah was glad the healers had begun to return, for all but simple illnesses still baffled her - those of the mind had always been Elrond's care. Readfah wondered if she would not go mad herself. No sign or news of Elrond; wild-eyed men and elves arriving at all hours, needing food, needing rest, and winter fast approaching; Celebrían weeping unceasingly, and Galadriel still ensconced in the house.   
  
At night, when it was quiet, Readfah would often sit with a single small lamp burning, or sometimes just near the glow of the fire, and remember Gil-galad. It was hard not to cry, and sometimes Brinhaw and some of the other women who had not known him, would join her and sit quietly while she spoke of him. It was the best thing that they could have done for her, and Gil-galad would have approved of the sort of eulogy they gave him far more than all the weeping and hand-wringing that would have been done had his body been brought home to lie in state.  
  
For the stories she told of Ereinion Gil-galad were not of heroics, or battles, or kingly deeds and stirring speeches. Rather, she spoke of how his jewellike eyes sparkled, how he could spring to his horse's back with muscles whipcord strong and lithe as a cat's, and how his dark hair rippled and flowed like the ocean sea under a night sky. She told of his quick temper, as easily roused as his matchless wit; how with a word he could command silence from a crowd, or with a smile give them good cheer. She recalled the day they met as easily as the last day she saw him alive. She told his favorite stories, most of them hilariously funny, and as often as not the ones he had loved best had been at his own expense.  
  
And finally, she told of his love for Celebrían, and most of them did weep then, in pity for the sweet elf-maid who would know her lover's embrace no longer, nor be fortunate enough to bear his child. They felt this perhaps the most keenly, for to the Éothéodias, children were the very purpose of life. They knew little of magic, and Readfah did not try to explain the little she knew, but she helped them understand that the Elvenking had not fallen by any natural means, and that the thing that had taken him from them was the very heart of evil.  
  
  
  
  
Only two people in Elrond's house knew whence came that evil magic, and only one understood that somehow the One Ring had escaped destruction. She knew it, for Nenya, the ring of Adamant still pulsed as powerfully as ever, chained beneath her garments over her heart. Who had the One, now? Where was it? For several long moments Galadriel forgot entirely about the other rings. It was obvious that Sauron no longer had it, yet it survived. She caught herself drooling. Impatiently, she remained in her room, pacing. Vilya was somewhere in this house. If she had to tear it apart...  
  
She shook herself, and tried to think more rationally. Briefly she thought of Nárya, the Ring of Fire, the smooth red stone set in such a way that it appeared to be glowing from it's heart. On the one hand, of course, possessing all three rings would be perfection, but somehow, she was content to let Nárya rest in Círdan's hands. She sensed that it had a purpose apart from the others, even while it was joined with them. Of this purpose, Galadriel knew nothing but a vague premonition that in the far future, it would be surrendered to someone of even greater knowledge and power than she. She was surprised that she did not resent this, but she was experienced enough to know it was for the best.  
  
But Vilya! She pursed her lips and thought of the irreversible bond she had forged between the Sapphire and the Adamant. Useless now. Gil-galad was gone. For all practical purposes Readfah was his heir. No matter how much Galadriel might have interfered with Nature in the past, she could not expect a marriage between two women. Over time, the unfulfilled bond would weaken the power of the Rings until they became mere ornaments. She paced anew and cursed her own stupidity. Lórien, lost. Imladris, lost.  
  
Then, suddenly, her eyes narrowing, she ran to the window which faced East. Hope sprang anew as she rapidly considered an alternative that no one had ever thought of...that no one but she would have considered even in their most fevered dreams. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Author's Notes:  
Another rough one. The adventure begins.....  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Fourteen  
  
  
  
Winter came early that year. The birds deserted their feeding grounds almost as soon as the last leaves came down, and snow began falling with the last flutter of departing wings, blanketing the ground with a deep, soft powder. Noon was indistinguishable from dusk, for the skies remained leaden, as if they, as well as the house in the valley, were in mourning.  
  
Gárulf had come home at last with the news that Elrond was alive, but had followed Isildur, Elendil's surviving son, to a small Númenorean outpost deep in the Northern mountains. There had been some sort of argument, and though as far as he knew swords had not been drawn, it had gotten ugly.   
  
"Was he alone?" Readfah asked worriedly, for Glorfindel had come home weeks before and knew nothing of Elrond's whereabouts. Glorfindel said he had seemed to vanish the day Sauron was toppled, and for a long time they presumed him dead.  
  
"I believe he rode with three esquires," Gárulf replied, holding aloft in his big hands a squealing, chubby boy-child, his and Frida's first, who had been born six months ago. "Two of our riders, and the young elf lad who used to help cook."   
  
Readfah smiled at the gurgling baby, and also at Gárulf's description of Taenon as 'young'. She turned to Glorfindel, who sat to her left.  
  
"We heard that he and Isildur had quarreled," Glorfindel added, his summer-sky eyes narrow with memories too close. "No one knows what it could have been about - Gil-galad dead moments before - and Elendil's body still burning, or so they told me. Círdan could possibly have told more, as he was there, but he was carried wounded from the field. Fear not," he added quickly, "he rests at home now, and will mend swiftly. But I was about a mile from the mountain at the time, for orcs still came as if churned from a great press, and then it all stopped, like blowing out a candle. There was a deathly stillness, and we knew it was over."  
  
"And yet no one knows why he chose to follow Isildur?" Readfah's eyes met Galadriel's.   
  
Galadriel kept her face neutral, but she had forever lost her gift of secreting all her thoughts from Readfah. She did not speak, but Readfah knew at once Elrond's absence was connected to the rings. Perhaps even that horrible One Ring of Sauron's, that somehow was bound to the others? What knowledge did Galadriel's inscrutable face still conceal?   
  
"And why has Celeborn not joined us?" Readfah directed the question to no one in particular, and it hung heavy in the air. Everyone knew that the silver haired general had opted to take his troop straight home to Lórien before the encroaching weather made the mountain paths impassable, and if they thought it peculiar that he seemed to have no pressing desire to see his family, no one was rude enough to say so. Indeed, Readfah, with as much reason as she had to despise Galadriel, had no wish to start a public quarrel. She was grateful, therefore, when after a few murmurs from a blushing Glorfindel about the weather, the subject was dropped. But Readfah had already pieced together an accurate picture of the truth. Celeborn wanted as little to do with magical rings, and his wife, as possible; so little he had even denied himself seeing his beloved daughter.   
  
  
  
  
The old black horse stood upon the terrace, facing the front door expectantly. His lips twitched, exposing long, yellowed teeth; the hollows above his eyes deep with age and wisdom. He walked easily still, though the snow slowed him down considerably as it had not when he had been a colt. He nodded when Readfah came to the door bundled in furs.  
  
"I am here, old friend," she came out and stroked his greying nose. "What's troubling you, Mor?"  
  
He turned and walked a few steps, his hooves making a soft clumping sound, then looked back at her.   
  
"Are you missing him too?" she asked, smiling sadly. Mor had been Elrond's mount before Luinon, and he had enjoyed a fine long retirement.   
  
Mor nodded again gravely, but he remained where he stood. Readfah thought that he had come to lead her to an injured horse, or a mare in labor too early, as he and some of the other older animals did when they pastured far from the house.   
  
"Do you want me to ride you, or shall I call for Ahliehha?"  
  
The aged animal swung his muzzle to his back, and Readfah mounted him gently, spreading the fur cape across his back. Shivering gratefully at the welcome warmth over his loins, he began to walk toward the falls path.  
  
"Mor, we'll never climb that through all this..." Readfah stopped and frowned. The path had been much traveled, but by unridden horses. It was as if they had been keeping the path open by themselves, yet there was no need. The valley provided ample winter fodder for all of them.  
  
"Where are we going?" she wondered, as the horse pressed resolutely up the path. She had only expected to find an injured horse nearby, not to take a trip. Besides, she would not have thought Mor strong enough for any real journey. As they passed through the thinning forest that would lead to the plain where the Éothéodias lived in Ux's day, she could hear the hiss of sleet falling ever faster through the ice-stiffened branches.  
  
Her heart skipped a beat. Elrond. He's taking me to him. Her keen ears had picked up nothing yet over the sound of the old horse's hoofs, each step compressing the snow with a dull, crunching squeak. I cannot hear him, but I can almost smell him. And then she heard his voice.   
  
They were perhaps no more than two arrows' flight away. Four of them, their horses struggling through the drifts high as their knees. Pity overrode happiness, and she cried out to them, hot tears turning to ice on her cheeks. Even so far away, she could see their faces, Elrond's beautiful eyes agleam as his hope took form before him. Taenon's lyrical voice, and those of the goldenhaired brothers - older now, bearded, stern of face - grew dim as the lovers' world compressed for a few beats in time, to disallow any presence but their own.  
  
  
  
  
Jubilation. There was no other word to describe the high hearted bliss of Elrond's homecoming. There was no room for mourning that day, even as those who loved him best found their eyes sweeping the dimmer corners of the house in the insane hope that Gil-galad would materialize and make the household complete again. And each time they did, the disappointment of the reunion thwarted threatened to spoil the reunion that was, so with effort they turned their attention to the joy they were permitted.  
  
Brinhaw was unrecognizable. The shieldmaid of old was now the beloved mother, flanked by her sons, who had been overwhelmed with surprise to find her and their sisters in Imladris. Ale flowed freely, and Elves and Men alike sang lustily and told such wicked stories Readfah could easily tell they had been Gil-galad's friends.  
  
Siddona immediately ordered the makings of a feast, and the two sons of the Mark shocked her by hauling to the back of her kitchens the carcass of a wild sheep they had shot not long after Readfah found them. They sang a brisk hunter's song as they carved the unfortunate animal into manageable pieces, and impressed Siddona to no end with their knowledge of spit roasting meat.  
  
"We ought to know, my raven haired lovely!" Tovig exclaimed, squeezing her tightly around her slender waist, brute regardless of her startled glance. "T'is many a bloody raw haunch we've had to gnaw upon until we learned, nic, broðor?"  
  
Held grinned and agreed, then began grabbing herb boxes and applying their contents liberally over the slowly turning joints of mutton.  
  
They dined sumptuously that evening. Though little wine had been pressed since the war began, Siddona had managed to hoard some of a butt of a rich, ruby colored vintage that defied all attempts to identify it. It was, Elrond said, remarkably like the wine they had enjoyed so long ago, when Ux and his companions had brought down the white bull of Araw and dragged it back to the valley for a summernight feast the Elves still talked about. The story was new to the Mark-folk, and doubly enjoyed because it was about their ealdes-fædern - 'long-fathers' - and the ancestors had apparently liked a good party as much as they!  
  
Elrond would not be separated from Readfah. They sat together on the deep cushioned chaise facing the fire, her hands enfolded in his, and her head cradled in the crook of his neck, their hair entwined, dark with auburn, a very portrait of contentment. Celebrían sat apart with Taenon, whom she had known from her childhood, and who had known Gil-galad from his, and was soothed to hear him speak softly of her beloved.  
  
Only Galadriel, who had wandered alone into an adjoining sitting room, was quiet. How to tell the Peredhel that his days with Readfah were numbered? How to tell him that, in spite of everything - bonds, promises, even love - he must set that aside and wed with Celebrían? And how to tell Celebrían that whatever she had shared with Gil-galad was set at naught, and in order to preserve their lives she must now wed with one who was only as a well-loved brother to her?  
  
Galadriel swallowed hard. She who was seldom afraid looked at the tableau in the greater hall and saw not merely man and maid, but one who had stormed Barad-dûr and lived, and the daughter of one of the few living beings she had ever feared with all her heart. It had to be done. And she, who was author of this madness, must be the one to tell them. She had to decide whether to tell them right away, or allow them a day, two days. The better part of her wished nothing more than to go home and leave them in peace. The part of her which had created the dilemma by which many Elvish bodies would be saved at the expense of a few of their souls cried out to tell them now. At last, looking at them again, she decided to wait until morning.  
  
  
  
  
The silver circlet, badge of the office of vice-regent, struck Galadriel above her brow, sending her staggering back a pace.  
  
"What is this that you have done to us?" Elrond's voice shook with fury. "what unnatural league with Sauron have you made? Answer me, woman!" he shouted, but the shout was lost as his voice dissolved into a sob, which frightened Galadriel more than his anger. She hardly dared raise her hand to the growing welt on her forehead.   
  
Readfah stood behind him, pale and sickened. Earlier that day, Galadriel had watched as Elrond and Readfah had removed the ring from it's hiding place, embedded in a crystal set deep in the library hearth. The last few moments in which either of them would ever trust her again. She had mentioned Galadriel's desire for the ring to Elrond that morning, and he had told her that Gil-galad had named him his heir. "In all things save his home at the havens, which he bequeathed to Círdan. So worry no longer, my love, this troublesome bit of gold shall be my care." It had been a joke then, only to turn on them in the end.  
  
"Even if I were so inclined, and did not love Readfah, I could not do this thing! Celebrían is wed in all but blessings to Gil-galad! I cannot interfere with that!"  
  
"And yet if you do not, we are all enslaved! You say the One was taken by Isildur. It will be only a matter of time before Sauron will return to claim it, from him, or his heir! Gil-galad is not here to give Celebrían children..."  
  
"Do you mean to say," Elrond strode over to her, and she put her hands up before her face, for she fully expected him to strike her, "that not only must I wed her unwilling, but that I am also expected to get children with her? No! I will not do it! Readfah will bear my children...we have waited too long for this day."  
  
"Readfah cannot have children." Galadriel said quietly. The news she had once hoped to keep secret came forth as a whisper.  
  
Readfah sat down hard, and she and Elrond looked at each other in mute horror.   
  
Elrond spoke first, and his voice was again deadly, "And how do you know that?"   
  
Galadriel could not face him - her eyes flickered to floor and window, but not to his own eyes, dilated and fixed on her, ready to strike.  
  
"You. You did this to her?"  
  
"The line of Fëanor could not be allowed to continue," she said quickly. "He placed a bond on all his sons that is still not quenched. As long as his line survives...children, by you, with the blood you carry, could bring all that horror back to life! She could not be allowed..."  
  
"Allowed! You speak as though you had authority over us! You will lift this curse and get hence, or I shall remove you from here myself!"  
  
At last Readfah spoke.  
  
"Am I then to be turned from my own house?"  
  
"Of course not!" Elrond said defiantly, embracing her and kissing the top of her head. "This - this woman shall take her daughter to Lórien as soon as the snow melts and never darken our door again."  
  
"Elrond..." Galadriel began.  
  
"Do not let me hear my name again in your mouth!" he roared, rising to meet her.  
  
"You cannot just turn your back to this! I see things you do not," Galadriel beseeched him, "You must..."  
  
"I - said - NO! Now get you from my sight!"  
  
"I will say what I must though you strike me, half-elf ! If you do not wed with Celebrían and give her children, it will happen! And sooner than later, Lórien will fall as well. Anything you do otherwise will result in the loss of both realms and countless lives! I sought only to strengthen the original properties of the rings, which I did all too well! The ring was Gil-galad's, not yours, when I did it. All it would have taken to complete it and assure our safety was the recitation of the blessings and the begetting of children.You are his heir. It falls to you to do what he now cannot."  
  
Elrond had gone to stand in the deep embrasure of a window, his heart as cold as the wintry scene outside, and gazed unseeingly at the frosted and lifeless garden. Galadriel stared at his back, seconds ticking past like hours, hardly daring to hope he might be considering her words.  
  
"Does Celebrían know of this devilry?" he demanded hoarsely.  
  
"Yes. Since last night."  
  
"What had she to say?"  
  
"She will do as she is bid."  
  
"That is not what I asked."  
  
"She does not wish to wed with you, yet she understands why she must." Galadriel omitted to tell him that Celebrían had thrice mentioned willing herself to die in the hysteria that resulted from this news.  
  
They had not noticed Readfah, who had risen behind them. Breathing hard, fighting a strange feeling that swam in and out of her consciousness like a fish in a lilypond, now gliding lazily, then darting furiously. Her face worked, and she fingered the hilt of her father's blade which as ever hung at her side.  
  
When at last they looked at her again, Galadriel drew a sharp breath and even Elrond stepped back in amazement. Readfah seemed taller somehow, the features of her face and her body thinner and sharper, all the rounded rosiness of her mother's blood gone. The braids of her hair seemed to bristle and her eyes held pinpoints of flame.  
  
Elrond started to speak, but she turned to him with no recognition in her glance, only a soft snarl warning him off. Only when she saw Galadriel did the look of sheer hatred bloom in her face.  
  
Galadriel said it for him. "It is Maedhros..."  
  
With a voice deepened to masculinity, Readfah muttered an oath in the ancient tongue and drew the blade. She strode toward Galadriel, all her motions seeming to slow in time, a step, another Quenyan epithet, the raising and throwing back of her arm, the swing of the shining oxblood braids. Elrond had seen it once before, long ago, but Galadriel stood frozen, fascinated in spite of her peril. She had only been voicing a fear that Fëanor and his sons were not quite finished in this world, but never had she thought to see it for herself. Elrond was barely able to hold her off - twice she pulled free and ended by throwing the knife at Galadriel's head, and missing by a hairsbreadth.  
  
"You - will -not...my daughter - unjust! Unjust!" Readfah screamed in heavily accented Sindarin as Elrond wrestled her to the floor. Her head shot up and her eyes bored into Galadriel's. "All your works will come to naught, in spite of you! And you!" She turned at last to Elrond "You will keep your promise to her or the very Sea will seem a drop of dew beside the tears you will shed!" She then gagged, her body stiffening, and just as suddenly went limp in his arms.  
  
Galadriel looked up at Elrond; in spite of her trembling the merest hint of triumph was in her voice.  
  
"Would you truly wish to have children with this one, Peredhel?"  
  
But Elrond did not seem to hear. He sat on the stone floor with Readfah in his arms, rocking, too deeply wounded to weep, too overwhelmed with sadness to care if he lived to see another day.  
  
  
  
  
All the household of Imladris knew by now what had happened, and only out of respect for Elrond did they refrain from voicing their opinions of Galadriel to her face. The Éothéodias, to a man, were for turning her from the house, and not a few were angry with Elrond as well, understanding nothing of his dilemma and only seeing that he was going to wed another in Readfah's place, and one whom he did not love. It seemed to Elrond that a cold wind swept the corridors while Readfah bundled her few belongings up in the room she had shared with him since the house had been built.  
  
He had wept and entreated, cursed Galadriel and swore he would never wed Celebrían, but in the end he knew he had no choice. He had been gifted with great insight, and like it or not, Galadriel was right. Gil-galad's words, too, came back to haunt him; 'you are my heir, and if I die my obligations rest on you.' But even Gil-galad could not have foreseen this horror. Elrond would not even assume the kingship, and forsook any titles he might have borne. Even the modest honorary title of "Lord" was not to his liking.   
  
He had defiantly torn the sash from his waist before a shocked Galadriel and all the rest of the house, and retied it with a knot above each hipbone, a fashion that signified that he would not wed as a sign of mourning. This was rare, and he knew only a temporary measure, 100 man-years being the usual interval. And yet, Readfah turned from him, and prepared to leave him.  
  
The bitter question, unspoken on his lips, she answered with a quiet resignation so unlike her that it made him weep anew.  
  
"Why?" she smiled bitterly. "Should I remain here while you take Celebrían to wife, and watch her belly grow big with the children that should have been mine? What will I be to you? A mistress? Such things are not done among your people. And I would remind you that Celebrían is grieving also. It is none of it her fault, and she does not deserve to be shamed that way. I can accept that you are trapped, or even that you must wed her for Gil-galad's sake. But that I must remain here and see it would be a punishment to me."  
  
"Then I will do what I must with her and she may go back to her mother! She would be happier that way, and the Valar know I would also!" Elrond's voice was urgent, the note of despair rising. "Readfah, I cannot bear not knowing where you are!"  
  
But Readfah shook her head. "You could not get a child and then turn your back to it, no matter what you say. And I can never give you an heir..."  
  
"Heir?" Elrond turned on her almost angrily. "What need have elves in these days for heirs? Every day more of our people are sailing West. There they will wed and have their children, not here. Readfah...we could go thence too...leave it all. Leave this hateful ring in Galadriel's hand and ride to the Havens this night!"  
  
Her eyes closed, the temptation almost too much. But she again shook her head.  
  
"I am not ready to leave, and neither are you. Our days here are not fulfilled."  
  
He bowed his head. At last no words would come. Readfah went to him and with both hands turned his face to hers.   
  
"This I will promise you. I will not leave these lands until and unless you do. As long as you abide in Middle Earth here I will be also."  
  
"I love you, Readfah," he said, and his love for her was ablaze in the light of his eyes behind the brimming pools of tears. "Please, don't leave me."  
  
"I love you also, Elrond," she replied, her own tears spilling. "And for that reason alone, I must." 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Author's notes:  
Another delay, folks, but this chapter just simply wouldn't write! My muse took off, and my kids keep hogging the computer.   
Enjoy!  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Fifteen  
  
  
  
Elrond now spent many of his days in the library, coming forth only to go to his bed, eating seldom and at such odd hours that he usually was alone when he did so. The servants worried, and whispered that he had the mien of one facing the gallows, but he would speak to no one save Glorfindel. And to him, he would not speak of the very things that caused his heart to bleed. He chose instead to talk of history, and of the books he planned to write, and to re-write, and the volumes he would restore. With the help of the very ring that had cost his happiness, Imladris would become a haven of lore and learning, and the preservation of manuscripts and relics. Never would he leave it again, unless the One was found, or until the day his Elvish nature called him seaward.  
  
The house was too quiet. The Éothéodias would come there never again, and Readfah had ridden away with her herds to where no one knew. Galadriel and Celebrían had gone the week before, but they would return, and the silverhaired princess who should have been Gil-galad's happy bride would now be his, to the misery of them both. He tried to think charitably of her, and could only see that he was to be yoked to a woman whose heart was already gone West; a beautiful and graceful girl-child who stirred in him no emotion save pity and despair. He would have to fight every day to remember to be kind to her, for his own heart lay, and would forever lay, elsewhere.  
  
He thought of the children he must beget, and groaned inwardly. How could he overcome his natural aversion to bedding her long enough to do so? Why had Galadriel not been satisfied with the power she had been granted? Why did she have to discover the magical parallels between the marriage bond and the bond between those cursed rings, and that the getting of a son and a daughter would somehow place a seal on these things? And worse, the hateful spell was such that if the marriage did not take place, the power of the rings would slowly disappear altogether. In this, Elrond was much like Gil-galad had been; things known as the natural magics, such as the use of herbs and stones and colors as medicine, were understandable. But the twist and turn and mire and labyrinth of the kind Galadriel had been meddling with was beyond his knowledge, and part of him was relieved that this was so.  
  
  
  
  
A few bleak seasons passed, and the news came from the North that Isildur had been waylaid and slain by Orcs. "Of what significance was the Ring he bore? For I regret it is lost," said Ohtar, one of Isildur's three surviving esquires, to Elrond. He had come, after a long, circuitous journey, bearing the broken remnants of Narsil, Elendil's sword, and nothing else, Elrond deemed, but more ill news.  
  
The consensus of witnesses, Ohtar said, was that the Ring was at the bottom of Anduin, since Isildur had always worn it chained about his neck, suffering no one to handle it, and they drew his lifeless body from that river and found not the Ring of which he had been so enamored. Ohtar added "My lord had spoken often and at length that he thought you wished this Ring for yourself, yet I myself heard you beg him to destroy it. In any case, it is lost, and should be no further trouble between your Houses."  
  
Just like a mortal to believe so, Elrond thought, tempted to cast the broken sword into the fire. Instead, he took the carefully wrapped shards and set them aside in a reliquary, then sank back in his chair to think.  
  
What of this Ring? Lost, but not destroyed. Galadriel had spoken truly on this at least; that he would know if an end had been made of it. So now their fates were sealed in a torturous limbo so long as it lay undisturbed beneath the eddies and currents of the great river. It would be buried under mud, trapped and buried and never found, yet still exerting its hold on the bearers of the Three, and preying on the mind of its Maker who would not rest until it was found.  
  
Elrond rose and paced, and swore as tears stung his eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time since Readfah had gone. She had made him swear not to follow her, and now he had the regret of that vow to add to all his other sorrows. He wondered again if it would not be simpler to cast his own Ring into the Bruinen and turn his back on Middle Earth forever. For a long time he entertained the thought...he would see Gil-galad again, and be at peace. And then he thought of Readfah's words, "Our days here are not yet fulfilled." He had been so distraught he had only half listened to her. And now that time weighed so heavily on him, he recalled her father's words also: "The very Sea will seem as a drop of dew..."  
  
  
  
  
A chill rain drifted across the moors between the great river Anduin and the mountains to the West. To the East, far across the river and barely within sight of Elvish eyes, rose the great forest of Taur e-Ndaedelos - the Forest of the Great Fear - that some named Mirkwood. The Forest was not as old as some, having sprung up from what had been swamp in the waning of the Elder Days, but it was broader and deeper than any other in the West, and was the equal of any in strange lore. Thranduil still ruled here, the only Elf left in Middle Earth to call himself king.  
  
If any had been watching from the wood, water or foothills, they might not have remarked the passing of what looked to be a herd of wild horses, except they seemed to travel at a purpose and did not often slow down to graze. Unless the watcher had keen eyes, he would not have seen the riders flanking the herd along the right as they made their way over the grass.  
  
Yet no watcher was there, for none but a few Naugrim - Dwarves - ever came to those stony hills, and they only to delve for uninteresting yet necessary ores they used to manufacture tools. None were there now. They would come when the ground was less muddy and the weather more to their liking. Had there been any Dwarvish miners watching the horses pass, they would have remained silent, for they had little to do with Elves and still less to do with the tall horsemen.  
  
They disappeared over the Downs into the deep waving grasses, far into the shadows of the mountains and finally to the plains the Éothéodias called home. There was Brinhaw and her sons and daughters; Gárulf, Frida and their son, and a dozen more of their people. And in their midst, Readfah upon Ahliehha, with a new, gaudily marked roan colt foal at foot. Over and over she told herself it was a new life. She had been displaced before. Nothing new. She had people who loved her. Then her heart would crumple again, reminding her it wasn't torn from her breast, as it had seemed at first. Many times during the trip she wept as she rode, trying to keep from being seen, so she would not have to endure the pitying glances and the words, meant to comfort, that only seemed hollow.  
  
Dryarrin had ridden with them too. Most of her family had been killed or escaped West during the years Readfah lived at Forochel, and her last surviving brother had died with Gil-galad. She had refused to stay behind, and Readfah gave up trying to scold her into it. She was glad of the company of one elf, at least, but the girl's long dark hair and tapered ears would always serve as a fresh and bitter reminder...  
  
  
  
"What kind of name is Pachu for a horse, anyway?" Readfah frowned. "It sounds like a sneeze!" The gold and white youngster was finer boned than she liked, but handsome and well made. Still, she had had him gelded, and was not sorry she had done so. He would have been a merry handful if they had left him alone. Dryarrin handled him easily and had bonded with him soon after his birth, and as a mount for a slender elf who would never bear armor he would serve well.  
  
Dryarrin - pleased to hear a bantering note in Readfah's voice for the first time in weeks - pretended not to notice.  
  
"I'm surprised you don't know. It's from the Wood-elf tongue for Sun-beam, 'pachua'."  
  
"Oh, yes," Readfah blushed. Though she had not forgotten the language by any means, her own Laiquendian accent was all but gone. The dialect Dry' spoke was not harsh with throatiness and clickings as hers had been, but the language was essentially the same. "I thought we'd meet with some of the Silvan folk on our way, especially since we passed so close to Thranduil's borders. But I suppose he's as much of a dictator as ever."  
  
"Do you know him?" Dryarrin looked back, as if to catch a glimpse of the great forest, many leagues away, across the far riverbank.  
  
"I saw him once and that was enough; that is one wood I seldom ventured near. I have known a few of his border patrollers, and have given them horses in trade for many things. He sent no soldiers to war, though many came of their own will, and he keeps to himself as ever he did. He makes me think of the Naugrim."  
  
Dryarrin laughed. "Is he ugly?"  
  
"No, he is quite handsome. He is kin to Celeborn, you know, and looks much like him, though his coloring is more like to Glorfindel's. It is his manner that reminds me of the Dwarvish folk. Close mouthed, close fisted, and overfond of precious stones. I suppose there are greater faults. His Queen seems happy with him, from all tales, and they have four children; three daughters, and a son just a few years old."  
  
They rode in silence for a while. Dryarrin knew that the reference to children was an unfortunate one, and sought to change the subject.  
  
"It's raining harder. Do you think we should stop and take shelter somewhere?"  
  
Readfah shook her wet braids out of her face. "We might, but we could be in Brinhaw's village by nightfall if we keep on."  
  
"Are we that close?" Dryarrin looked about her at the unvaried landscape. "Och Yavanna, what a place to live!"  
  
"Dull, aye, but good for horses!" Readfah's eyes had regained some of their sparkle. "Look, Dry', how their heads fly up! There are other herds close by. Let's catch up to the others."  
  
But a smiling Tovig was already riding toward them. "We are but a few leagues from home!" he shouted happily. "None expect us, I'm sure," he added, as he drew alongside them. "But there will be a grand feast when they see you!"   
  
"Do they ever stop thinking about food?" Dryarrin asked quietly.  
  
"Never," Readfah replied firmly.  
  
  
  
  
Elrond turned from the library window, which faced North, and shuddered. A hundred years had passed since she had gone from Imladris. He wondered if she still lived among the Horsemen, or whether she had struck out alone again. He felt dry as ash, as if a wind could make an end of him. He could not know that that day, the day he and Celebrían wed, Readfah had sensed it and had wept herself sick. Only Dryarrin really knew the whole reason why, for none of the Éothéodias now alive had known him.  
  
The words had been said. Galadriel's sigh of relief had been audible. Those who loved him had watched grimly as the mockery was played out as if on a stage. And afterward...they had looked at one another blankly...and Celebrían went up to the room she had shared with Gil-galad and closed the door. Elrond disappeared into his study and called for a draught of wine.  
  
It was Glorfindel who brought it to him, not Taenon as he expected, and his brows knit into a frown.  
  
"If you have come to congratulate me I have nothing to say to you," he said bitterly.  
  
"Don't be an ass," Glorfindel retorted in a tone that was almost affable. His fine golden hair caught the light from the window and for a moment was almost blinding, as he bent to pour the wine.  
  
"I am not such an idiot as to think you could ever be happy without Readfah," Glorfindel continued. "but sourgrass made into tea is an excellent brew, if enough honey is stirred in."  
  
Elrond shot Glorfindel a look of pure poison. "You are not suggesting..."  
  
"I am suggesting, my old and dear friend, that you make an effort to at least be kind to her. She's upstairs crying."  
  
"What else is new?" moaned Elrond, taking a long hard pull at the wine. "She cries at everything. I can't bear it, I tell you!"  
  
"You have never been one to run from unpleasant duty." Glorfindel's softly slanted blue eyes were as filled with remonstrance as they were with pity.  
  
"That's just it, curse it! Our lives have been one unpleasant duty after another! We waited and waited and took terrible risks...and all so that in the end I am tied to Galadriel's daughter and the woman I love is..is...Varda knows where!" He drained the goblet and poured another.  
  
The elf-warrior pulled his tall body upright from the pillar on which he had been leaning, a golden shimmer seeming to follow him as he moved. "You know where she is too. She has been living among them since the day she left. And if I know her, she knows what has happened this day."  
  
"Do not torture me further!" Elrond's voice rose unevenly.  
  
And then, Celeborn came in.  
  
He had stood like a stone through the reading of the vows, and now his face was grimmer than ever they had seen it. He sat opposite Elrond and regarded his unwilling son-in-law with silver-grey eyes blackened with shame. The front of his tunic looked wet - with a start Elrond realized that Celeborn had been weeping.  
  
"I never thought I would live so long in this world that I would see what I have seen this day," he sighed.  
  
"What's done is done," Elrond tried to be gracious and offer him a chair, but all he succeeded in doing was gesturing at one. "Please, have some wine." He hiccoughed gently.  
  
Glorfindel brought two more stemmed silver goblets from a sideboard. Gil-galad's, he noted, seeing the crest surrounded by a radiant cluster of stars - exquisitely detailed smithwork worthy of Fëanor himself. He frowned as he caught his own thoughts, and poured from the flagon.  
  
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, then all three started to speak at once. Another uncomfortable pause ensued.  
  
"Galadriel and I will be leaving in the morning." Celeborn said at last, sipping the wine gingerly, as if he expected it to be bad. It was not, and he took a longer drink. "It is my hope that you will treat my daughter kindly, under the unhappy circumstances."  
  
"I seem to be giving everyone the impression that I plan to beat her," Elrond tried to catch Glorfindel's eyes, but by chance or design the bright blue eyes were turned elsewhere.  
  
"Not at all. It is just that...she expressed a desire to come back to Lórien as soon as," here Celeborn fidgeted a bit, "as soon as her duty here is fulfilled."  
  
Elrond thought he would be sick. "That of course is her choice," he managed to say. He recalled Readfah's words about him not being able to turn his back on any child of his but refused to think about it.  
  
"When there are children, they will come with her," Celeborn continued.  
  
Elrond nodded automatically. He had rehearsed for this. "I shall remind myself only that in spirit, they are my King's children."  
  
Glorfindel peered at him as if he had not heard aright. Even Celeborn looked startled.  
  
"Well," Celeborn cleared his throat, "that certainly is one way of looking at it. I had not thought...well!" He finished the wine and fell silent once more.  
  
After a space they rose and Celeborn embraced Elrond sadly. "I am sorry things turned out this way. I hope you will always consider me your friend."  
  
"Of course," said Elrond, though his insides felt cold and hollow as one of the snow houses Readfah used to describe in her tales of the Ice Bay. A sharp pain accompanied the echo of her name in his mind, and tears welled.  
  
When Celeborn had gone, Glorfindel turned on Elrond. "What was that about the 'King's children'?" he demanded.  
  
"The only way I could make myself do this was to be doing it for him. If I believed it was only for Galadriel I would have ridden to the Havens with Readfah that day!"  
  
"You are doing it for all of us," Glorfindel reminded him.  
  
Elrond turned from him and walked over to the fire. In it's red glow he could almost imagine, if he peered from just the corner of his eye, that Readfah's dark, autumn colored hair glimmered next to his shoulder. "Ai..." it was the barest of whispers, but to Glorfindel it carried all the anguish of the Elder kindred in one soft syllable.  
  
  
  
Celebrían came down the stairs of Elrond's house for the first time a week after her wedding day. Her husband had daily sent polite enquiries as to her health, but had not himself gone to see her. Was this what life in Imladris was to be like? She did not love Elrond, but by some peculiar twist of logic, or perhaps a stray bit of vanity, she thought he ought to behave as if he loved her. She was prepared to make the best of things...and felt as though he ought to do likewise. It did not occur to her that he had not the advantage of Galadriel's daily advice and encouragement on the subject of duty.  
  
Having discovered that weeping incessantly did nothing to stir his pity, she thought that perhaps a show of spirit might spark his interest enough that their marriage might at least be tolerable. She made a point of disagreeing with him on some small matter at table that evening.  
  
"Please, Celebrían, do not try to be Readfah. You are not she, and any such attempt on your part only worsens what lies between us."  
  
"And what lies between us, milord, but her shadow?"   
  
"I wish it was her body!" he snapped, then sighed. Elrond had promised to be kind, but the words seemed torn from him and he bit his lip as soon as they were said. To his surprise, she did not burst into tears, but regarded him stonily, as if she could not believe he dared speak thus to her.  
  
"I am sorry," he said lamely. "you do not deserve that."  
  
She shook her head. "We are both bereft of the ones we truly love, milord," she said, with a grace that made him feel ashamed. "We dishonor them if we become enemies."  
  
He looked at her closely then, as if in that moment at last discovering what Gil-galad had loved about her. Suddenly, he felt more comfortable in her presence. He would never love her, but perhaps, given time, they could live in some degree of harmony.  
  
He poured her a glass of wine and bid her take a seat closer to his. Taenon moved efficiently from the shadows and assisted in removing her cover to a chair at Elrond's left, then disappeared with uncharacteristic silence. He had heartily disapproved of the marriage and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. He had stayed in Imladris only because Elrond and Readfah both had begged him to.  
  
"I suppose I was trying too hard to prevent misunderstandings from arising between us, milady," Elrond said more warmly.  
  
"I know," Celebrían nodded, again with grace. Elrond winced. He saw the dilemma in a flash...if he was not careful he would despise her for not being Readfah, yet any attempt on her part to be more like Readfah would likewise meet with his scorn. Above all he wished to be fair.  
  
"We don't really know each other," he began cautiously. "I spent too much time looking for a way out of this, and now that it has happened I want you to be comfortable here. It is what Gil-galad would have wanted."  
  
Celebrían looked up at him, the candlelight reflected in her eyes making her look even smaller and more vulnerable than she was. If she hoped for more she would be disappointed. But, she was her mother's daughter, and had her mother's inner core, though seemingly wrapped in more fragile fabric. She knew where she stood, and always would stand with Elrond. Like him, she found comfort in the notion that what she now did she did out of love for Gil-galad. She preferred not to think of what Gil-galad would have had to say about the outrage that was Readfah's lot.  
  
  
  
  
Life among the Éothéodias had changed little since the name of Riddermark was conceived, when warriors rode herd on the vast plains above the Misty range and the Elf-king first became their friend . They had several times scattered apart and reunited, creating differences in dress and dialect, but they had essentially remained the same people. Many had migrated South so far as to put them within a day's ride of Imladris, and a few had gone as far as the Gladden, though no real settlements were made. The clans that had come that far preferred a freer life than that of the villages, and were destined to become the fathers of great families of seminomadic herdsmen. They would live much as Readfah's mother and her family had - traveling from pasture to plain - living mostly on game and an occasional sheep or goat from the flocks, making food and drink from their abundant milk and that of the mares. They no longer ate horse flesh unless they were in danger of starvation, for over time they had come to regard their horses as family, and buried them when they died with as much ceremony as if they had been human.  
  
Readfah came back to live with the yellowhaired ones much as she had in the past, and was treated by them as she had always been, as a revered and loved sister and mother. She had her own house, her own herds, and even a milch goat and some hens. Soon her life had settled into the day to day rhythm of any woman among them, though she spent more time with her horses than any of them.  
  
They did not dream that she could be lonely, for their houses were open to her, and anything she wanted was hers if it could be gotten. Only the older women, wisest as always, understood her sadness. She was as a childless widow to them, and though they understood how old she really was, still their eyes saw a young woman who would never marry or bear a child, and they pitied her accordingly. Each generation in turn learned that it was of no use to suggest that she choose a husband for herself from among their sons.   
  
Every evening she watched Eärendil's slow, majestic progress in the sky until the Sun was gone. She sat and watched the vast herds of horses coming up from the river, looking toward her as if to a talisman, then making their way up to the fields where they spent the night. They were her pride and joy, for were they not all hers? No deed of ownership could deny that had it not been for her work, horses would still be the flighty, string-fleshed meat animals they were in her mother's day. War horses with legs and lungs of iron; placid, biddable draught beasts; ponies, eagerly sought by Dwarves and the strange and reclusive little people called the Holbytlan; sleek and mettlesome hunting steeds; all would still be a dream had she not given herself so completely to her task. And as she watched, she again grew sad, for she saw herself becoming less and less necessary as time passed. Was it Elrond who had once recited the fate of Elves to her, in the shape of a bit of informal verse he had translated:  
  
We are born to perfect  
Instruct and direct  
To serve as the beacon, the banner unfurled  
To mold and to guide until  
Satisfied  
We are no longer part of this world  
  
Or had it been something singing in the back of her mind since the day Maedhros and Weil conceived her, deep in the long grass, so much like that which waved in the night breeze before her now?  
  
  
  
  
"I have to confess I am restless too, Readfah," Dryarrin looked at her mentor with no little concern. "But if we leave here, where shall we go? You do not intend to go back to Imladris?"  
  
Readfah shook her head violently. "They are wed, Dry'! I dare not see him again or I will surely break. That cursèd woman!"  
  
Dryarrin knew she did not mean Celebrían, for Readfah pitied her as much as she did Elrond.  
  
"Then where will you go?"  
  
Readfah rose from the bed upon which she had been curled - upon which she had wasted too many hours since she knew that Elrond was taken from her for good. She set her jaw, and narrowed her eyes, and met Dryarrin's with all the mettle she possessed returning to her at last.  
  
"Lothlórien." 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Author's notes:

I had to decide whether to make this chapter longer or start a new one, and decided a new one would work better. Next chapter should be up well before Christmas!

12/27/2007 - Edited.

Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Sixteen

Readfah sat still for a long time, both she and the big, black roan stallion she rode staring ahead as if transfixed. Dryarrin rode up beside her but said nothing. The Golden Wood lay stretched before their feet, on a long, gentle downslope; a bright yet brooding presence in the late Autumn sun. It was still an hour's slow ride away, but close enough for Elvish eyes to discern movement in the foremost trees.

"They are watching us," said Readfah, with no trace of emotion in her voice save a whisper of sarcasm. "They guard their realm jealously."

They were near the Northeasternmost corner of the woods, within mortal sight of Anduin. There the river bounded the wood on its Eastern border. Though Readfah had never set foot in Lothlórien, she knew that there was a path along the riverbanks that travelers could walk unchallenged.

They rode further. Readfah never taking her eyes from the trees. There was a rustling, as if of a quick fitful breeze, though none blew. It was as if a flock of birds were moving toward them through the branches.

"Wood Elves, Dry'! I don't understand. I thought but a few of the Silvan folk sought shelter here when Morg- ... long ago, " she quickly amended. "This feels and smells like the Imlad Ris used to!"

She stopped again and narrowed her eyes. "Then why do we skulk about like a pair of lost orcs?"

"Because the Lady may be here, and you and the Lady are hardly on friendly terms?" Dryarrin suggested placidly.

"I think just the same I shall ride to the door and not creep to a window like a thief!"

"What of the horses?"

"They will be all right here for now."

Readfah had brought but few animals. Before her departure from the Mark she had ridden from herd to herd, simply pointing out the horses she wanted, one here, two there, sometimes none at all. They left off grazing and followed her as they always had done, and as always, the men who owned them said naught, amazement and not a little fear staying their tongues. For all that she might greet them at her door, her arms dusted with flour from a breadmaking, or coming forth from the coop with a squawking hen for the pot, they knew always who she was. She was never greedy, and never took any horses that were bonded to a rider. One time only in the memory of those living now did any man object to a choice Readfah made, and his own fellows turned on him.

"What? Do you wish to bring a curse on us? She is Readfah...and it is by her gifts that we have become who we are! In two years or three she will bring you a better one still! Do not shame us with your foolishness!"

Scarcely two dozen horses had followed her to Lothlórien, mostly mares, and the great stallion, Gamælen (1), that she rode. Readfah usually was chosen by a mare - over the years she had only bonded with seven stallions - but this one had reminded her so much of Raha, the black stallion of the wicked humor who chose Gil-galad so long ago, that she almost violated her own rule of the horse's choice. The gift of speech was his, though he used it but seldom and only when he so chose. In this way, Readfah knew that he had come from the line of horses her father and uncles had brought with them from over the Sea, though in appearance he was like to the horses of the North.

Now, approaching the eaves of the wood, Readfah and Dryarrin beheld for the first time in their long lives the mallorn trees which grew only in Lórien. No stranger ever saw those trees without marveling at their great size and beauty, and the two of them were no exception. They guessed, correctly, that some of the trees contained dwellings, partly formed of their natural growth and partly of Elvish make - not at all like the tree cottages of Imladris, which were only a horse's height or so above the ground and wholly separate from the trees themselves. The pattern of the bark seemed to spiral up like twisted bands of silver, weathered to smoothness. The branches wove in and around each other like a great knotwork and the perfection of the leaves was breathtaking. They gleamed like true gold, bearing but a hint of green reflected from the leaves of lesser trees. It seemed to the travelers that they might have been wrought of those precious metals by giants in another Age of the world.

They rode under the shade of the first of those splendid trees, knowing well they were watched closely. Readfah decided that discretion was of no further use here. She threw back her head and shocked Dryarrin with a series of calls neither had heard or uttered in a thousand years.

"Brr-rr-rrrrrrre-eee-eee ck! ck! ck! wiwido! Ck wiwido! Zee! Zzzzeeeee!" (2)

The rustling stopped and the forest was silent for what seemed a long time. Then, from a distance, they heard a single clear reply.

"Zeeeeee! Chkchk - piuuuu pik! pik!"

As if revealing themselves on purpose, shadowy figures became visible high in the trees, though none approached.

"Zeeeee...Rr--r--! Ck! Ck! Wiwido!" she called again.

Barely she heard the murmur of soft voices. Suddenly, or so it seemed to them, a tall archer appeared in the clearing and several more shimmered into view after a space. Carefully, Readfah threw back her dark green cloak and waited.

The archer did not lower his weapon until he was nearly upon them, but he was smiling as he approached. Readfah dropped to the ground and walked toward him in disbelief.

"Orophin?" she almost squealed. "Praise be to Béma! you are alive!"

The handsome elf's hip length fall of night black hair swept around her as they embraced. Then Dryarrin dismounted and he looked up at her, his heart-stopping, slanted, dark-lashed eyes kindled into flame as he acknowledged Readfah's introduction, and greeted her in flawless, clicking Laiquendi. (3)

"Readfah!" he turned back to her after an awkward pause and exhaled her name as if satisfied she was no vision. "When last did we see each other? You were threatening to go live with the Lossoth. We took it as a joke, but we never saw you again!"

"I did go up there! My own chattering mouth woke my curiosity. It was dull at times, but I learned much. But all that later! Are the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel here now? Do you serve them?"

His face became grave and he spoke carefully. "The Lord Celeborn, yes.We went to war at his side. He and the Lady are here now. We are free to do as we like, as long as we protect the Wood from enemies. Readfah, there is something wrong, is there not?" Orophin's sensitive grey eyes swept her face and body, for Wood Elves read the whole being, not just the face.

The Lady Celebrían," she began.

"Ah yes. And so you know what has happened? She and the Lord Elrond have wed, and we have heard that the match was made unwilling by both! Can this be so?"

"She was betrothed to Gil-galad," Readfah continued. As she told the story, the other Elves gathered around to listen in shock, for none of this had been made known to them.

"You were Elrond's betrothed, and he wed the Lady's daughter in your stead?" another Elf spoke up, her voice raspy with the Green accent. Readfah looked up quickly, but saw that she was far too young to have known her. Her face was pale with disbelief. The same question hovered on all their lips - why had none of this been made known? Why was Readfah's name never mentioned, so that those who had been her friends and brothers could have known she was still alive? Had she been that great a threat?

Before she could reply, Orophin looked up, deeper into the wood. Another archer strode toward them noiselessly. He was clad in the same changeable grey finewool cloak they all wore - a hair's breadth taller than Orophin but greatly resembling him, for they were brothers.

"Haldir!" Orophin called. "It is Readfah!"

"Well met, sister!" cried the newcomer, who had already shouldered his bow and replaced the arrow in the quiver with a graceful turn of the wrist.

"Haldir...I had never thought to see any of you alive again." Readfah's eyes filled as his slender, strong arms encircled her. "And Rúmil? Is he...?"

"Alive and well, and scouting along the river about two hours hence. I have sent out signals. But you! When, where, why?" he grinned.

"I should ask the same of you! How came you to these woods, and when? Galadriel has almost always wintered here, hasn't she, save for during the War? She has known me since before Elrond built his house, and she has never spoken of me?"

"Readfah was betrothed to Elrond," Orophin interjected, and Haldir quirked a brow.

"Nay, no word of you, not even from the lord Celeborn..." his voice slowed and he looked up at Orophin in wonder.

Then no further talk was possible, for more of their people arrived, some who had grown up with Readfah, and some who had even set eyes on her mother. So few, far too few, for a great number of the Silvan folk who were survivors of Morgoth's ravages had followed their Grey-Elven kin into the West.

"Enough of this for now!" Haldir's voice carried a note of command. He turned back to Readfah. "We have sleeping platforms all round the borders of the Wood, where our scouts rest on patrols. Choose one if you will and take your ease there, and feast with us tonight."

"What of the Lady?" Readfah frowned. She must surely know by now that I am here."

Haldir shrugged. "It is not by the leave of the Lady that you may stay. None of us will trouble to tell her you are here, unless you wish it. She has ways unknown to us, and she may discover you are here on her own, but I deem that it will not be so unless she has reason to expect you to come."

"That I cannot guess, Haldir. We are not - truly - enemies."

"Though you have cause to be," he reminded her needlessly.

"Will this cause any trouble for you?"

"How? We have no orders to hold you prisoner, or forbid you entry. You are an elf...or elf enough, and kin to the Silvan people through language and adoption. We have welcomed you. I account you my sister and tribeswoman." Haldir shook his head firmly. "I will have no part in raising a weapon against you."

Readfah sat back, a small smile playing about her mouth. This was going to be far more interesting than she had at first thought.

Readfah's memories of her life with the Silvan folk were some of her earliest and most enduring, having come to live with the Green Elven branch of that people in her early youth. It was not long before the ways of the Elves-Who-Chose-the-Woods, known in this realm as the Galadrim, came back to her. There was a kind of oneness with Arda, deeper it seemed, than that of other Elves. The Noldor had become royalty - artists, craftsmen and historians - living in palaces and even the warriors among them wearing rich garments and jewels. The Sindar were hardly different, but the Silvan Elves lived with an elegant, primitive earthiness, only the pale shadow of which still touched their "higher" kin. Every breath was taken with an almost savage joy. Food was eaten and love made with a rich and hearty appreciation. She thought, not for the last time, that they were more like to the Éothéodias that any other Elves she had known.

She had lay down to rest and fallen asleep, and awoke to the crisp, smoky smell of freshly roasted pig. She sniffed the air, but something was odd about it. Sliding off the flet and down to the ground, she met Orophin who had come to fetch her.

"When did you start eating meat?" she teased, the puzzle resolving itself all at once in her mind.

"When we nearly starved!" laughed Orophin. "That was one time the Green folk were wrong, at any rate. But even they began to hunt at need. There are still those who prefer not to touch flesh, and will not unless they must. But we no longer get into arguments about it. Where is Dryarrin?"

"Seeing to the horses, I think," she replied, then catching his expression, smiled. "You like her, don't you?"

His grin was nearly impish, and he nodded. "Very much."

Unbidden, Readfah felt a pang of envy. She might have known that sooner or later Dry' would find a mate. And she, Readfah, must go without one all her days. She cursed silently and turned away.

"You mustn't feel that way," he said gently. "You were not wed, but betrothed only. You may yet find someone else."

Just like a Wood Elf to cut right to the heart of the matter. "I really don't think so, Orophin. I don't see how. Not now...perhaps never."

He regarded her a long while, just to the point of making her feel uncomfortable and no further.

"Readfah, why did you come here?"

"Why? The Lady took my home and my mate from me and bestowed them on her daughter. Now I am come to take for myself a home of my own choosing."

Orophin hid his surprise well, but could not help but be amused at Readfah's boldness. "The Lord Amroth will care not, but the Lady will undoubtedly object!"

"She might. But I think she would find it preferable for me to live quietly in a corner of this wood where she need never bother with me again, than to risk my return to Imladris."

"But you have no desire to do that, do you?"

"Of course not, but she need never know it. You see, all my life I have been sent to places not of my choosing. I will not go to Taur-e-Ndaedelos, for that forest is beset by strange evils. Nor will I go to the Havens, for there dwell too many who do not forget the ill my father has done. This wood is the only other elf-haven left, and even Galadriel cannot deny that she owes me for what she has done. And," here she lowered her voice, "I can probably get anything I want of her as long as I can make her believe I will go back to Imladris if she has me banished from here."

Clever, thought Orophin. I would not want her for an enemy...

They walked toward the clearing where some others had gathered. The split carcasses of two young pigs were propped ingeniously at an angle before the fire. This was obviously a place where they met to feast often, for the fire was built in a stone pit, and even the light tread of Elvish feet had worn many paths to and fro until they were indistinguishable one from another. A spring, very old from the look of the smooth, worn basin where the clear water spilled, bubbled up from a fissured rock, at the sides of which grew two young mallorns.

Haldir called out a greeting and another elf, clad in the dark tunic and leggings worn by all the archers of Lórien, turned and broke into a wide smile. It was Rúmil, the youngest of the three brothers, and the merriest.

"Brother, do my eyes play tricks? I'll be speared and trussed if it isn't the russet-haired wench who broke my heart and ran away! Come to beg my forgiveness, have you?"

Readfah laughed out loud at this nonsense, for a gold ring on his right forefinger glinted in the dappled light. He was the only one of his brothers to have wed, but that, and the fathering of two sons and two daughters and the births of several grandchildren had not quenched his mischievous spirit. He was much like Gil-galad, thought Readfah - though he was as comely as his brothers - he had the same quick wit and marvelous flashing eyes that the Elvenking had had. Rúmil was somewhat shorter than the other two as well, and for a brief instant, it seemed to Readfah that she saw Gil-galad, flanked by the two who had been his brothers in all but blood - Elrond and a dark-haired Celeborn. Her heart caught...would the tears never cease springing to her eyes?

He strode to her and spun her off her feet, kissing roses into both her cheeks and lifting her high off the ground with a wild laugh.

Sobered a little as he set her down, he peered at her intently. "You have become so serious, sweetling! Has it to do with what Haldir has been telling me?"

She nodded, but put a finger to his lips. "Speak no more of it now. This night should be one of merrymaking and new meetings!"

As if her words had been a signal, (or perhaps it was the irresistible smell of roast pork) more Elves began to come forth from their hidden places. Even a few children were to be seen peering around trees and finally venturing into the clearing with that peculiar dawdling gait common to bashful children everywhere - hands clasped behind, eyes on the ground, suddenly finding a leaf or a twig to be of immense interest and squatting to study it. But at last the ones who were cooking began to slice the meat into portions, and baskets of nuts had been placed about within easy reach of all, with good flat stones for cracking. Carved wooden bowls of fruit were at hand, as well as plenty of wine.

There was another innovation aside from the meat, and that was the addition of tall foaming pitchers of spring-chilled sheep's milk, obtained from the finewool flocks that grazed the meadows. Readfah had never known Elves to have dairies, though those who had lived among men certainly knew of such things. Elrond had spoken of the lavish use of butter at the wedding feasts they attended in the Mark with something akin to awe, and the second most important industry among them, after horse breeding, was the manufacture of a great variety of rich cheeses which sold for a good price to traders. So far as she knew, Elves had not yet widely adopted that art, but Readfah had some knowledge of it. Perhaps, if she stayed here...

She looked around her. This was the life and contentment Eru had meant for his Firstborn. Orophin sat apart with Dryarrin near the stream, reminding her of her first meeting with Elrond. They were so happy Readfah could not remain bitter. Maybe Orophin was right. Maybe some day she would be able to bond with another, but right now she could not conceive of being able to give her heart to anyone, so firmly was it in Elrond's keeping. With an effort she shrugged off these thoughts and turned her attention to a little girl who had wandered up to stare at her and finally ask how her hair came to be THAT color.

The children, sensing as they always do those who love them, forgot their shyness and begged her to play with them and tell them stories. And she did. Interesting ones that made them wiggle, their eyes shine and their little mouths pop open in surprise. And far into the night, long after the little ones had been tucked to bed in the high flets, their elders ate, drank, danced, and sang, while Readfah met many new people and renewed many old friendships. But it was to the three brothers who had been Celeborn's trustiest Captains she spoke most.

"Ulm's fish, Readfah!" Rúmil exclaimed, serious for once. "You would ride into Caras Galadon unheralded?" He whistled softly.

"I will not wait for Galadriel to discover I'm here, as if I have aught to be ashamed of," she replied. "Caras Galadon is eight leagues from here? Then I think we should take a little rest, then ride before daybreak."

"Ride?" Haldir looked up bemusedly.

"Of course. I will not leave the horses." She looked from one to the other, comprehension growing in her mind. "Can it be that you do not ride?"

"Horses are few here, Readfah, and seldom used," Orophin replied softly, with a tinge of embarrassment. "We can ride at need, but we..."

"...are sorely out of practice!" quipped Rúmil, grimacing and arching his back as if to relieve an ache. "You have always been one for the horses, sweetling. I'll wager you're hard as iron on your..."

"I agree with Readfah," Haldir interrupted smoothly, betraying his annoyance with Rúmil with the barest twitch of one corner of his mouth while Readfah laughed. "It is best that we go to the city at dawn. I do not foresee civil war in Lothlórien, but if it is to be, let us take all the advantage we can get."

"Do you think that Lord Celeborn will see our helping Readfah against Galadriel as a betrayal, brother?" asked Orophin.

Readfah noticed Orophin's omission of Galadriel's title, but did not remark on it. "I think not," she answered before Haldir could. She remembered too well the many times she had seen Celeborn's mouth drawn tight in anger over something his wife had done. "In truth, I believe quite the opposite."

Haldir only smiled. "Sleep now," he said. "We will find it out tomorrow."

They had ridden since the dew was still cold on the grass; Readfah, Dryarrin, and as many of Haldir's scouts as there were horses to mount them. Those in Caras Galadon were roused too late by he sound of hoofbeats, and now Readfah was without the newly wrought gates almost before the Sun had fully risen. Confusion reigned, and questioning voices grew louder until someone thought to fetch the Lady.

But she was already flying through the main corridors from her apartments and peering over the edges of balconies as she made her way down the complex maze of steps that spiralled to the ground. Readfah? With Haldir and his brothers? She pulled her cloak tighter and bit off an oath. She broke into a run. Only when she had nearly reached the bottom did she compose herself. It would not do to appear afraid before such an insignificant intruder. But afraid she was - afraid and angry and more with herself for being so. What if I did wrong her? Of what consequence is a single, misbegotten halfbreed in the greater scheme of things? But she knew the answers even as the questions formed themselves in her mind. The answers lay in the autumn color of Readfah's hair, the lift of her right brow, and the square of her shoulders. She was her father's daughter, and Maedhros had feared nothing and was capable of anything.

Standing alone at the bottom of a broad, smooth stair that appeared to be at once the work of silversmiths and the natural growth of the mighty tree of which it was a part, Galadriel trembled in fury and amazement at the sight before her. Readfah was still seated upon the big dark horse, who himself regarded the Lady with a bland look of indifference. The scouts were mounted on Readfah's horses, and were clearly her friends. Excited whisperings flew among her ladies and the armed vassals who dwelt with her in the great mallorn that was house and city in one. And Celeborn was nowhere to be found.

"What seek you here, horse-maid?" The Lady turned a suspicious sidelong look at Readfah, who merely shrugged.

"A home, if it please milady." Or if it please her not, I care not either way, she thought. Readfah could not help but look up, past the white-clad Lady and her frightened handmaids, into the network of stairs and platforms. Thousands of lamps cast pale golden light into a city of perpetual dusk. Indeed, thought Readfah, marveling, this is how I imagined the cities of Valinor. Perhaps Galadriel has sought in her way to bring the Undying lands here. She regarded the Lady again, with grudging respect.

Galadriel, for her part, thrust her chin up in what was almost defiance. "You see, then, horse-maid, what can be done with - small - gifts by those who truly know how to wield them."

Much of this, then, was the work of her ring, but Galadriel had many powers that were hers alone. There was no denying that the Lady had created an Elf-haven of dazzling perfection...and it was yet unfinished! No wonder the Galadrim respected her. She was not easy to love, but she was creating this for them, to keep them safe.

"You seek a home?" Galadriel's voice became languid. "What, have the Horse Lords disowned you?"

It was blatant bait, but Readfah did not rise to it. "Nay, madam. Say rather that I am of two Houses, and need two homes."

"Why should you be permitted to come here?" the note of anger had crept back.

"Simple justice, madam. And I think your people would agree, if they knew the truth."

Galadriel was naturally pale, but Readfah thought the Lady's mouth grew a little whiter.

"I think, too, that milord Celeborn would agree as well," Readfah was almost, but not quite, ashamed of the pleasure she was taking in Galadriel's discomfort.

Galadriel stifled the impulse to order her own servants to remove her, for she possessed an unfailing sense of the mood of those about her and she could not be sure such an order would be followed. She could not risk losing face that way.

"Surely you do not wish to live here?" Galadriel gestured at the great tree behind her.

Readfah shook her head, though her eyes were drawn unbidden to the wondrous work of the woman she despised. "I wish only to make my home at the edge of the wood," she said at last. "Next to grass and water of course."

"The grasslands outside the wood are not the Elves' to give."

Readfah looked at her with the crooked grin that made her heart go cold. "Then I shall take it."

Galadriel fell silent. The two of them locked eyes once more. Galadriel turned hers away first.

Readfah then spoke the last words she would speak to Galadriel for many years. "If we are agreed then, I will take my horses and trouble you no further."

Galadriel nodded stiffly, still angry that she had been forced to give in. No one had more pride than she had...no one. As she watched them ride away, she heard Readfah speak to Haldir, shifting easily from the barely accented Sindarin she had been speaking back to the Silvan tongue. That alone would have made her a far better ruler of these half-wild folk than she. Thankful that such a thought had not occurred to Readfah, or if it had, had been met with her incredulous laughter, Galadriel turned and slowly made her way back up the long stair.

(1) Gamælen "(He) speaks."

(2) No translation possible for any of this...I have attempted to show that they identified themselves to each other as Silvan Elves this way. Readfah's bird calls, specifically that of the Chuck Will's Widow (a Southern relative of the Whippoorwill) and the Cedar Waxwing (zee!) identify her (in Middle Earth) as coming from the North. Obviously too, these birds would have had different names in that world.

(3) I have treated Nandorin, or the Laiquendian, as a dialect of the more common Silvan tongue, and basically the same language, mutually understood. The Elves of Lórien speak all dialects, and many speak Sindarin, though very few do so fluently.

(4) Lothlórien did not "belong" to Galadriel at this point in Middle-Earth history, but I am having her establish Caras Galadon just the same.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Author's notes:  
Some historical markers may be out of place in time, such as the "claiming" of the land called Calenardhon by the Gondorrim, but it did happen at some point.   
Those of you who are familiar with the story of the Rohirrim will begin to see where this is going, I think!  
As always, thanks for reading, enjoy, and Happy Holidays!  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Seventeen  
  
  
Readfah surveyed her new home with satisfaction. One of the outpost houses, a large mallorn with a many-leveled flet that looked out onto the plains on Lórien's Southern border, had been made over into a permanent abode. The horses had come out of the wood that first day, sniffed the virgin grass of the open field below, and began cropping it eagerly. It was perfect, she thought. It was the same kind of land so prized by the Éothéodias, but a touch warmer, protected by a curve of mountains and forests from the fierce winds that so often swept the Northern plains. Anduin lay to the East, and the ancient wood called Fangorn was thirty leagues to the South. Completing it's border was the river Limlight, flowing into the Undeeps of Anduin from Fangorn and separating this pocket of grassland from an endless uninhabited prairie, called, by the Gondorrim who claimed it, 'Calenardhon.'  
  
The Field of Celebrant, where Readfah's horses now pastured, was so named for the small river that flowed East through the wood to Anduin, almost parallel to the Limlight. It was an ice-cold, mountain-fed stream, and only in the fordable shallows where it emerged from the wood, an arrow's flight below her house, did the Sun ever warm it. Deeper into the wood, it tumbled over a series of step-like falls that curled protectively about the mallorn in which Readfah now lived. Her first night there, she realized one of the things she had been missing during her stay in the North was the sound of the Bruinen beside Elrond's - and her - house. As the sadness of remembrance began to grip her, she had stood up, and faced North defiantly.  
  
"No! I will no longer do this to myself! I am going to - live - here, not just sit and sorrow myself to a shadow as I did in the Mark! I will always love him, but my days of mourning are past!"   
  
Her house had stairs grown into the tree's trunk, and the main flet had several smaller ones branched from it; some two steps up, some six, and one, a sleeping area for guests, was the highest of all, twelve steps up. There were many hollowed places in the branches and trunk, like great burls, where beds were made, and even in deepest winter were snug and dry. It became a popular place to visit, and she was very seldom alone. Haldir and Rúmil were usually nearby, and Dryarrin and Orophin lived just out of sight around a bend upriver. Two families whose children Readfah had played with in the Imlad Ris when she was herself a child, had homes near her own, but deeper into the wood than hers. Now, their littlest ones brought joy to Readfah's corner of the wood, for they were in and out of her house almost daily, shouting gleefully "More cakes, Readfaaaaaah!" and squeaking happily as they jumped into her lap.  
  
Galadriel, true to her word, did not trouble her, though Celeborn was a frequent visitor. He was most often accompanied by several scouts, dressed like them, and to Readfah's delighted astonishment, now spoke a fluent if somewhat heavily accented Silvan tongue, complete with slang. For, though he had been a slave to protocol all his life, he had learned, after many years of sound (and frankly abusive) lectures from Gil-galad, to relax. Better than anything, he loved to sit at the edge of one of the lower platforms, long legs dangling over the edge, and eat apples while he watched Readfah teach the little ones how to ride.  
  
He had been gone when Readfah first arrived, and when he returned to Caras Galadhon and heard what had happened he was shocked and yet strangely glad that she was there. He hesitated at first to visit, for somehow he felt personally responsible for her painful situation. When at last he did come, she embraced him with no word of blame, and thanked him for his welcome.   
  
"'Readfah, it is good to see you again," he had said. "I only wish I had the words to tell you how sorry I am that it is not in Imladris, with you as Elrond's bride."  
  
Deeply moved, for she knew Celeborn found it hard to be demonstrative, she could only nod. She willed herself not to cry as he took her hands.   
  
"It is small comfort, I know, but I want to say that you have only to name it, and I shall make it my business to see that you have anything you need."  
  
The unspoken words "except Elrond" hung between them and they both knew it.  
  
"If it is within my power, of course," he gracefully amended.  
  
He returned often after that, and Readfah began to look forward to his visits. Admittedly, she took a perverse joy in knowing that Galadriel must know where he was most of the time when he was away from home, but her true joy was of a better sort: Celeborn was quite simply her only link to the days when they were all together and happy, before war and rings and misapplied magic had destroyed it all. The years began to flow by again in peace, and for a time, Readfah was content.  
  
  
  
Far to the North, in Imladris, Elrond had expanded his library into a second room, and worked, if not as contentedly as Readfah did in Lórien, then at least as productively. In addition to all his other tasks, he had taken upon himself the duty of guardian to the line of Isildur, opening his home to the heirs of that house. As the living brother of Elros, forefather to the Númenoreans, Elrond was the revered link between the Faithful and whatever Elven blood remained to them. He preserved and protected the relics of their houses as well as those of other fallen kingdoms that had only prophecies to keep hope alive. Elrond was in truth the only one who could recognize by sight the authenticity of certain articles, having in some cases seen their making with his own eyes. When old books and manuscripts grew brittle, it was Elrond who labored unceasingly; supervising the scribes who worked constantly to make new copies, inventing longer-lasting parchments and inks, and searching for still more works so that their histories might be preserved. During this time, Elrond worked on perfecting his healing skills as well. Elves were seldom if ever ill, and their few troubles were easily cured, but now that his house had been opened as a home to Mortals as well he had plenty of work to do.  
  
As she had in Lothlórien, Celebrían spent much of her time in the gardens, planting, gathering, and studying herbs. She became friends with Arion and Leithel, the healers who had been Elrond's apprentices back in the days when tents lined the woods of Imladris and stones were still being gathered for the house. They had wed right after Sauron's defeat, and just recently Leithel had given birth to a daughter. Her pregnancy had been a source of great despair to Celebrían, who still spent her nights alone.  
  
For a long time she had been too ashamed to confide in anyone, but at last she turned to Leithel and poured out her heart. Of course, there wasn't an Elf the entire length and breadth of the valley who didn't know that the Lord and Lady had not yet in nearly thirty years consummated their marriage. Debate had still not cooled over the subject of whether these two could be truly wed, vows or no vows. All were agreed on one thing, however, and that was they had better set about having children. The existence of the Rings of Power was known of by less than a dozen living Elves all told, but most others knew at the very least that Galadriel had done something to the aura of protection ( that most of them still believed Gil-galad had wrought) about the valley that only the begetting of children by the king's heir could set right. And many made so bold as to remind him of it, and often. Even Glorfindel's usual tact had been strained one night when he blurted out that the sooner Elrond did what he was supposed to do with Celebrían the sooner he could be quit of her.  
  
Leithel had grieved sorely for Elrond and Readfah and at first had no wish to involve herself, but after a time took pity on her and told the sorrowing Celebrían that there were some roots that had been used with varying degrees of success on Mortals. "But they affect only the body, milady...there is as yet no cure for a heart unwilling." But Celebrían was so unhappy that Leithel agreed to show her how to prepare the infusion. Both women knew it was of no use to attempt secrecy, and sent the bottle of sweet, brownish liquid to Elrond by way of Glorfindel.  
  
"Now you see the Lady is willing to meet you half way." Glorfindel pulled out the cork, which gave way with a gentle 'plop.' He sniffed at it and pronounced it "pleasant enough...t'is cerves* root, I think," he said, naming an herb whose leaves lovers often used as incense.  
  
Elrond's first impulse was to throw the bottle out the window and Glorfindel right behind it, but he knew he had run out of excuses and time. His scouts had yesterday killed two orcs who had come dangerously close to the portals, and it would be only a matter of time before they were weakened enough to be found. Cerves root...he shrugged and poured a full goblet. He tasted it, and found it not at all bad. In silence he drained the glass and hoped it would work.  
  
  
  
Elrond did not sleep for three days afterward. The encounter had been brief, painless if not completely pleasant, and the sky had not fallen nor had any other disaster struck. And, it was successful.  
  
Celebrían grew big quickly. She looked less pale, as if pregnancy agreed with her, and indeed she felt better now that the hard part was over. She had taken no pleasure, save that of relief, in Elrond's embrace; though he had been gentle and considerate, and she had been grateful for that, her mind had rebelled at the last.   
  
Afterwards, they had lain quietly while his breathing slowed - hers had not even quickened - and she wondered if he would fall asleep in her bed. She need not have worried, for he soon sat up, his lithe, hard-muscled shoulders shrugging his robes up over him, and the long, dusky silk of his hair falling back into place as if nothing had happened. Do not speak, she begged silently. Do not speak, and I can imagine for a moment he is back with me. Elrond seemed to understand, and only nodded his gratitude to her as he rose and went out of the room, knowing that that was what she desired more than anything life on this side of the Sea could give her.  
  
  
  
Twins! Celebrían was carrying twins...there was no longer any doubt of it. Elrond had trained scores of midwives, and he knew every sign of that rare yet always fascinating phenomenon. Though she complained that he treated her like a specimen of some sort, Celebrían knew she was in the best of hands.  
  
Elrond prayed hard that they would be son and daughter, so that he and Celebrían would be spared the embarrassment of having to lie together again. His Mortal blood made it less of a blow to his psyche than it was to hers, but he liked it no more. On a purely physical level as well, of course, it had been better for him, but the fleeting pleasure had been rapidly replaced by a sad emptiness. Oh, Valar not again, for I could scarcely do this a second time, and she has not my strength.  
  
But it was not to be. A year** later, under a full Moon at the height of the Yuletide, Celebrían bore two healthy sons.  
  
Though they were identical in size, shape, and coloring, Elladan, as the firstborn was named, had the wide eyed expression of his grandfather Celeborn while Elrohir, who had followed less than a minute later, looked out at the world from under his brows with a look of fearless merriment that was strikingly like Gil-galad's.   
  
Perhaps she willed it so, mused Elrond as he gazed thoughtfully at his younger son, who looked up at him from the cradle while Elladan slept peacefully a handsbreadth away. Of course, the logical explanation was that his own father Eärendil's too-rare smiles had had the same bold character as Gil-galad's. But very few remained in Middle Earth who had ever seen the Mariner, let alone anyone in Imladris, and it was easier to believe that Celebrían had somehow imprinted them with the spirits of the two males she had loved best in her life.  
  
There was now the delicate matter of the daughter he and Celebrían must have, but that might wait for a time. For now it was enough that the barriers were safe. The matter of preservation was not yet so urgent..."a son for invisibility, a daughter for immutability" Galadriel had said. Elrond looked into the cradle again. Both children now slept, their grey eyes open and immobile. That is so, he thought, they are more elf than I. He wondered suddenly what they would have been like if they had been his and Readfah's. Tears formed and fell, and he left the room quickly. Celebrían stirred but did not wake, and the Moon sank past the window into the West as dawn came.  
  
  
  
The weather had been too bad to send messages, but news of the double birth soon reached the Golden Wood. Caras Galadhon celebrated wildly, and sent messengers from the city around to spread the word so that everyone might join the feasting. In all the city, only Celeborn thought of Readfah, and wondered how best to tell her. 'T'would be best if I were to go to her,' he decided at last, 'but my heart fails me...she has had so much taken from her. Yet she must know.'  
  
He rode out at dawn, and reached her house when the Sun was high. As he approached the flet he heard voices. Good, she is not alone. Laughter rang out at some remark of Rúmil's, and he heard Readfah's tart retort and Haldir's dry one.   
  
"Some one comes," he heard her say, and her head emerged from a window. "Celeborn! What brings you in this weather? Come up!"  
  
He was grateful to do so, for despite the luxuriant grey fur cape wrapping him from chin to knee he was chilled. The treehouses were warmed by freestanding braziers of pottery, iron and stone instead of fireplaces, and Readfah's was particularly cheerful, for she had allowed the children to paint on it and it was covered with absurd but endearing portraits of horses.  
  
He felt uncomfortable even accepting a chair, dreading to speak and knowing he must. Hardly knowing how to begin, he decided to be blunt. "Readfah, I have come with news. Celebrían has been delivered of twin sons."  
  
She betrayed herself only by a sudden slight intake of breath, for her expression did not change. Haldir began to slide his arm about her shoulders but she shook her head. He clasped Celeborn's arms instead, murmuring congratulations, but he peered worriedly at Readfah, who seemed to be in a trance.  
  
"All is well then?" she asked at last.   
  
"The boys are vigorous as any children have a right to be, we are told," Celeborn smiled with grandfatherly pride in spite of himself. "They came at Yuletide and all is well. But, you..."  
  
"I will send a gift when they are a twelvemonth, of course. Brittan and his family travel North almost every year, and I will send it by them."  
  
Celeborn was silent, knowing she chattered to mask the storm of emotion in her mind. She rose and bustled about with food and tea things. Rúmil, uneasy as always when conversations grew serious, went outside for more wood. Mention of the Northmen was awkward, for they had grown wary of Elves for some reason, and Readfah's friends were accounted eccentric among their own people for associating too closely with her. Seldom had she gone so long without visiting the Mark, and now that they came no more to Imladris the estrangement was all the greater. It was said that some of them had begun trade with Dwarves for metal goods, and Elvish relations with the Naugrim had seldom been better than a truce. It was not hard to deduce that those of the Éothéod who no longer 'believed in' Readfah had been listening to Dwarvish rumors.  
  
Yet the remnant, the proud descendants of Ux and his family, who disliked villages and made their homes all up and down the great river's banks, still bore the red tokens. They used a dialect that still incorporated a smattering of Elvish words, both Sindarin and Silvan, spoken with a throatiness that was quite Laiquendian. Readfah could say that she watched the dialect in it's birth, remembering when Gil-galad and Hulwyf toasted each other over the roasting carcass of the bull of Araw and traded bits of their languages and bawdy stories far into the night. Their faces lit by the glowing embers, Man and Elf swore a friendship that against all odds had remained true to this day, even if the numbers were fewer than they had ever been.  
  
"It's kind of you to offer a gift, Readfah," Celeborn said at last. Rúmil had come back in, and changed the subject bluntly by saying it was snowing again.   
  
"You must not try to ride home," Readfah insisted. Then there were voices calling from deep in the wood, and she smiled. "More company. Pity you didn't get a deer, while you were out, Rúmil! But there is plenty of rabbit if you haven't tired of it..."  
  
Soon an iron pot full of braised rabbit simmered comfortingly on the fire, and a smaller one containing a biscuitlike bread was set beside it to bake. Three of Readfah's childhood friends - Ozinde, her cousin Férienn, and Férienn's husband Regeon - came up the stairs, their children dancing ahead. Little Thirion, Ozinde's older boy, solemnly offered Readfah a pair of grouse he had insisted on carrying himself. No elf of Lórien dared to visit late in the day without at least a token gift of food, a custom that had evolved from the time when they kept no gardens or flocks to sustain them. Even now, game was the gift of choice, though some of the Green Elves might yet bring dried berries and nuts in winter, or fresh fruit in summer. Opinion was divided over Readfah's introduction of cheese. Those who liked it chewed it boldly with dried fruit and pronounced it marvelous, where others nibbled a bit to be polite and did not take second helpings. All were agreed on one thing; it was easily available all year round, and as Rúmil, who was not fond of it, said, "T'would sustain one's strength even in battle, I think, if the smell didn't smite you down first!"  
  
"Lovely, Thirion!" Readfah admired the full feathered birds from all angles before hanging them from a rafter-like branch, allowing their wings to spread gently apart."Come tomorrow and help us eat them."  
  
The little boy grinned and nestled into his favorite hollow, lined with furs. Soon he and the other children were engrossed in a game than seemed to consist chiefly of giggling.   
  
Meanwhile, Celeborn's news had been repeated, and Ozinde tactfully suggested to Readfah that they walk outside for a moment. They wrapped furs around them and went down the steps. The snow was not deep under the trees,  
  
"Is Su' on patrol today?" Readfah began, but Ozinde shook her head.   
  
"I did not bring you out into the snow to talk of my husband, Readfah, but of the one who should have been yours!"  
  
"Oh, Oz', no, please. I have been reconciled to that for years..."  
  
"No, you are not. I can see it in your face. Readfah, your mother, Weil, was the kindest of Mortal women, and my family knew many of the yellow haired folk. She was a great medicine woman and midwife, and many Elves respected her. She accorded me the honor of seeing you born, so you might say I have been your friend since you were born. Indeed before, for many times I saw her walking in the woods with the tall one who was your father. I have probably known you longer than anyone alive, though we have been parted for so many years. But I did watch you grow up. In this way you are more Elvenkind than Mortal, and you are Elrond's mate."  
  
"All this is to say what? Shall I go back to Imladris and demand that ...demand what? They are wed and they now have children. He is lost to me."  
  
"Words have been said setting a spell in motion," said Ozinde, bluntly. "But he is no more truly bonded to the Princess than I am. He is and forever will be yours. But I do not speak of that now. When you loved one another, you set another spell into being, on your body. What I am telling you is that some day, you should try to find another mate."  
  
Readfah was speechless for a moment. When she found her tongue, she stammered "But you just said..."  
  
"I know, it sounds odd. But you will not be at peace until you do so."  
  
"But even if I were so inclined, who would have me? I cannot have children..."  
  
"There are many of the Silvan tribe whose wives were killed***, and who desire no more children."  
  
Readfah knew this was true. But the thought of actually wedding someone else...  
  
"Elrond has sons now. Is his heart at rest, I wonder?" Readfah's tone was bitter.  
  
"After a fashion, I daresay. But his wife was thrust upon him. You may choose whom you please."  
  
This radical thought gave Readfah pause.  
  
"Haldir is quite handsome," Ozinde smiled at last, teasing her.  
  
Readfah's brows furrowed. "You know he is as a brother to me, Oz'! And..." she stopped, amazed at herself for even considering it. The possibility was too new, too overwhelming.   
  
"I shall have to think about it more," she said at last. Red and frowning, she fumbled at her cape, which had blown back.  
  
The flurries were coming thicker now, and the grey light of dusk stole swiftly over the winter landscape, only less dark than the silver boles of the trees. They turned back toward the house, whose window-niches now glowed with a soft golden light. Readfah permitted herself but one glance toward the North, and slowly a smile - half amused, half amazed - began to twitch at her lips as she mounted the stair.  
  
  
  
* Smells like sassafras, behaves like Viagra. Fictional.  
** I read somewhere that Elf-women carry for a year. Corrections welcomed.  
***During the time of Morgoth. Silvan Elves sometimes will remarry at the death of a spouse. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Author's Notes:  
  
  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Eighteen  
  
  
  
"Father...who is Readfah?"  
  
Elladan looked up from his perch on a footstool in Elrond's herbary, while his twin, more restless, amused himself outdoors in the sunshine of a beautiful spring morning.  
  
"She is a horse breeder," Elrond said easily, after his heart stopped hammering. Too easily, for his son's deep grey eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat he looked away out the open windows, for Elrohir had cried "Whoa!" having closely escaped a dunking in the stream, playing on the slippery stones.  
  
"I know that - did she not sent Elrohir and me a birthyear gift, and new horses twice since we have been old enough to ride? But why have we never seen her? Where does she live? Have you ever seen her?"  
  
"So many questions, Elladan! Why the sudden interest?" Elrond fought hard for his eyes not to betray him, so he pretended to search for a seed bundle.  
  
"It isn't sudden," the youth replied, nibbling absently at a shelled nut from a bowl on the table where his father worked, "I have often wondered about her. We have seen nearly everyone you have ever spoken of who still lives, except Círdan and a few others. But we know where they are. When the horses come, they are always brought to the portals by those tall Mortal Men who speak that queer tongue that almost sounds like Greenelvish."  
  
"The Éothéodias," Elrond murmured. He often wondered if his sons, in spite of their youth, had guessed the truth about him and Readfah. He had done all he could to be kind to their mother. It would seem to anyone who did not know the secret of his past that Elrond and his family were the picture of domestic happiness. Yet Elladan had more than Celeborn's facial expression - he had the keen deductive powers of his grandsire as well, and a gift for reading unguarded hearts. Elrond knew that his son could sense that his heart was a closed door.   
  
"Suppose you tell me just how much you already know about her, and I shall begin from there?" Elrond's voice was too light, but Elladan, if he noticed, said nothing.  
  
"Well, of course she is an elf," he said, frowning at a strangely shaped nut in his hands.   
  
"Ah...she is rather like me, half-elf," Elrond corrected.  
  
Elladan's brows rose. "Truly?" So much like Celeborn, thought Elrond.   
  
"Yes, Readfah is the daughter of Fëanor's eldest son, Maedhros, and a Mortal woman called Weil."  
  
Elladan nodded, for he knew his history well. "I would imagine then her mother was one of the Éo-..."   
  
"Éothéodias..." supplied Elrond. "You are correct."  
  
"No others have such horses," Elladan beamed. "When Elrohir and I rode out with the guard to meet them, they talked of her as if she were one of the Valar. Father, why will they not come into the valley?"  
  
"Readfah is indeed like a Vala to them. It was she who taught her people the arts of horsemanship from the Elder days, and still does so, I believe. Once she lived in this valley, long ago. And her mother's people came here often. When she left, they would no longer come, though they would be welcome..."  
  
"You knew her, then." It was a statement.  
  
"Yes, I did. Once. But where she has gone I do not know. She was once a wanderer, so perhaps she has returned to that way of life."   
  
Elladan was silent for a moment. "Perhaps... she desires to remain hidden for her own reasons. I would like to meet her one day, though, and thank her for her gifts."  
  
"Maybe some day you shall, my son." Elrond turned his back and clenched his teeth hard before his voice could break. Elladan said no more, but joined his brother outside.  
  
Elrond went up to his room and went inside, closing the door behind him. Shaking, he paced for a moment, they lay down on his bed and stared at the patterned ceiling. He hated himself for what he saw as his own weakness. How could he have ever let Readfah go? He knew that she sent the horses as much to let him know she still lived and prospered as to give gifts to the boys. And how much more did Elladan know, or guess? He was still a boy, but he was sharply intelligent and maturing at an alarming rate. Elrohir, though perhaps a bit more bumptious, was just as quick witted. And if they did sense something amiss, and were keeping their peace, what could his beloved sons possibly think of their parents' silence?  
  
  
  
Years passed, the twins grew into adulthood, and Celebrían was again with child.  
  
The new little one, strangely enough, owed its life to Readfah: roots and herbs did not have the desired effect a second time. Celebrían had suggested that he close his eyes and conjure Readfah's image so that he might be moved to lie with her. She had said it half mockingly; it never occurred to either of them to try such a thing. But Elrond took her at her word and put himself into trance as he often did before a difficult healing.  
  
It worked well, and he swore silently to himself afterward for not having thought of it much sooner. His response was immediate, and embarrassingly intense. Celebrían's spirit came very nearly leaving her body, yet, again, she was stronger than she seemed. She got with child right away, so unless another son came to them there would never be any need to do this again.  
  
As the time of her confinement drew near, it seemed to them that Celebrían indeed carried a girl-child, and this included the twins, for they spoke with no note of doubt that it was a sister. Amused, their mother charged them with finding a name for her. Elrohir it was who blurted out "Arwen! For she WOULD have been the daughter of a king!"   
  
"Whatever do you mean?" Elrond frowned while Celebrían blushed guiltily.  
  
Elrohir looked at his father fearlessly. "You said that long ago, when Gil-galad made you his heir, you accepted all from him but the title of king. If you had, we would be a royal family, and our sister a royal maiden...Arwen."  
  
Elrond's relieved eyes met Celebrían's briefly, and he nodded. "So it is, then. I see you remember your history quite well - Prince - Elrohir!"  
  
Elrohir giggled and buried his nose back in the book of verse he had been reading. The next night, the last day in May, as Eärendil made his bright progress through a soft and varicolored evening sky, Arwen was born. And though he loved his sons well, there was a special place always in his heart for his daughter whom he called Undómiel...Evenstar... for she had been conceived, in spite of everything, in what had been for Elrond an act of love.   
  
  
  
The spell proved true - an almost palpable shield rose around both Imladris and Lothlórien, even surpassing the strength of the barriers that had existed before the rings' powers had been altered. Celebrían and her children spent most of their time in Caras Galadhon while they were still young. In due time after Arwen's birth, there arrived at Imladris a beautiful grey mare, escorted as always by a troop of cheerful Éothéodias. And Elrond, as always, was both grateful to know Readfah was well, and deeply frustrated that he could not find her. Readfah had predicted that Lothlórien would the last place he would dream of finding her, and it was true.  
  
As they grew, Elladan and Elrohir became friendly with the Edain, the Númenorean remnant who lived in Imladris, and often rode errantries as esquires to their knights. For though they were the sons of Elrond, their father gave them no special favor, and they expected none. They were seldom separated, and together their individual gifts formed a formidable whole, as warriors, as speakers with the gift of persuasion, or as lovers-of-the-ladies who mended hearts rather than broke them. There was no task too high or too low for them, and they lived life fully and merrily as Elves should.  
  
But Lothlórien was too tame for them, so they visited rather than made a home there. Their sister, meanwhile, had grown into what her people said was the most beautiful elf maiden since Lúthien, but she was mostly satisfied with the quieter arts. Though like all women of her house she was trained in swordsmanhip and archery, she excelled rather in needlework and fine silversmithing. Life under the shadows of the great mallorns suited her, save for two things which irritated her grandmother to no end; she missed her father (who would not leave Imladris) and she loved to ride; two things that daily reminded Galadriel of that halfbreed granddaughter of Fëanor who, like it or not, ruled her Southern border. So far, Arwen had never strayed in that direction, and there was a tacit agreement between Celeborn, Readfah, Haldir, and all others involved that it was best that the children of Elrond be kept from wandering there if possible. Of this agreement, Galadriel was glad, and she was grudgingly thankful to Readfah for her silence.  
  
  
  
Galadriel need not have worried, for Readfah as well had no wish to be found. Whenever word came that Elladan and Elrohir were visiting, or Arwen was riding abroad, she usually took her herds South across Calenardhon to the Limlight where so far none but a few Elves had ever ventured.   
  
In the hundreds of years that passed since the twins' and Arwen's births, she traveled far and made many new acquaintances. She had brought her herds among the Gondorrim, who, like their ancestors, tended to emphasize rather than blur, as most Elves did, the differences between the roles of men and women, and who looked at her with undisguised shock when they met her. Her reputation preceded her, for a few Men of the North still spoke of her with reverence, and they had expected a freakish, manlike apparition instead of the modest looking creature she was.   
  
Once she was known, she had her supporters among them, who disregarded her sex and treated with her as they would have with any man. But they could not understand her refusal of the fortune they would have heaped on her for the fine horses she gave them. Preferring, as most of them did, the sedate greys and solid colored coats, deeming them of more dignfied appearance, Readfah's own herd became by default flashier than ever. In later years, the rider of a well made, white-splashed warhorse, particularly a roan, was said to be riding a Readfah, though in truth almost every blooded horse in Middle Earth owed it's existence to her intervention.  
  
Unlike the Éothéodias, the descendants of the Númenoreans tended to think in terms of hierarchies and wealth when confronted with the philosophy of power, and at first could not understand the near worship she commanded from their goldenhaired kinsmen. She was unwed and had no lineage and no family. She was no real beauty to their eyes - their traditions giving greater homage to small and delicate women. She was by no means fashionable, her plain garments of linen and leather scarcely different than those she wore when the foundation of Imladris was laid, though now they were more likely to be green and brown rather than undyed stuffs.   
  
Still, her presence seemed to radiate a warmth the more discerning of them recognized as of far more worth than mere appearance. In spite of this, they soon discovered that she had no time for or patience with any who would maltreat or neglect a horse. And even the few Lórien Elves who traveled with her seemed to have more confidence in her earthy directness than in all the magics that the Mistress of the Wood was purported to wield.  
  
The proud Haradrim to the Far South she visited but once - for they had even stranger notions about women than the Gondorrim - and was amazed at what had become of the horses there. For a thousand years and more they had bred a small but sturdy animal that seemed deceptively light boned. They were enduring, and very beautiful, with large eyes, broad foreheads, and tiny velvet muzzles. She walked among them and saw for herself what had become of the too-small animals she had stolen from Gil-galad to trade for warhorses. Here in the desert there was no need for great size or brute strength; only endurance, will, and intelligence, all of which they had in plenty. They had found a home.  
  
And here and there, pockets of primitive tribes who still lived as their ancestors did, in caves and hollow places under great trees, still bowed their heads to the ground when the great herds of Readfah came to them and would not meet her eyes when she spoke to them. Fewer and fewer horses were born halt or deformed, and fewer became ill, but there were always some who asked for the quick mercy of death at old age, or painful injury, and she never forgot the promise she made to the forefathers of the Wild Men that so long as she lived they would not go hungry.  
  
Readfah was busy and content, but still had not wed, though she assured her friends that some day she might do so. Over the years, there had been a few, as had been predicted, who did not mind the prospect of childlessness, but Readfah always said that "not minding and really wanting are a mile apart and parallel" so nothing ever came of any of it.  
  
After Dryarrin wed and had a daughter whereat she no longer traveled far from the wood, Rúmil's youngest son, Ponder, became Readfah's helper, and later her constant companion. It was he who had accompanied her to Harad, and had gone with her to the Gondorrim in the time of Rómendacil I and many times since. He was a nimble witted yet taciturn fellow; of few words but of decisive action. His family nicknamed him Galvorn, for he wore a horseshoe shaped amulet of the black metal of the same name first forged in the Elder Days by Eöl, known in legend as the Dark Elf. Too, he somewhat resembled that strange Elf, for he was tall and dark, with dark eyes and brooding good looks, and still preferred the black garments he wore from his days as a night raider when Orcs had been many. He had lost his beloved wife and infant son in one of those many nights of terror long ago, so many thought he and Readfah might someday wed. Yet, though they might share the talan by the stream after a few years, they were but friends, and they seemed content to leave it as such for neither had the heart for more.  
  
  
  
"So, who is he?" Readfah asked.  
  
"I do not know."  
  
Haldir slumped into a fur lined hollow in Readfah's talan with an offhand grace that belied his agitation. Galadriel had asked that Readfah come to Caras Galadhon at the earliest possible moment. She would not say why, and Readfah was tempted to ignore the summons, but her friends were seething with curiosity and truth to tell, so was she.  
  
"He just looked like any old man," said Rúmil, chinning himself on a branch. "Maybe more travelworn than any we have seen of late."  
  
"He got past the sentinels, Readfah," said Ponder, as always coming straight to the point. "He rode straight into Caras Galadhon on a bony old horse you wouldn't have given the Wild Ones for soup."  
  
Rúmil's wife, Vëa, concurred with her son. She said little, instead once again silently giving thanks that he and Readfah seemed to be of no mind to wed. She loved Readfah as a friend, but had no wish for her Galvorn to mate with such a woman, and one reputed to be barren.  
  
"Lord Celeborn was beside himself with rage," Haldir said, while Readfah tried to picture that. "But as the stranger came alone, and declared himself a friend he decided to listen to what the old fellow had to say. The Lord and Lady drew apart with him for a time, and not long after she sent a messenger to find me, and tell you to come to the City as soon as you may. More I do not know," he concluded.  
  
After all this time of truce, to ride into the City. Readfah sighed, leaned out of her window and whistled for Drædnawit*, a young red mare who looked as if a bucket of whitewash had been upset upon her head. She was a bold animal, and a fluent speaker, as more and more of the herd were these days.   
  
"An old man, you say?" she spoke aloud. "Was he Éotheodias?"  
  
"On such a beast?" Rúmil chuckled. "Then he was an outcast! But no, he - he looked like no race of Men in particular. It's funny...his eyes...I would want to swear he was one of us. But that cannot be. He was a Man all right. Still..."  
  
"You will hang from that branch all day and know no more than you did when you came in," snapped Vëa, though good-naturedly. "Why don't you go with Readfah and find out?"  
  
Rúmil dropped to his feet before her and kissed her swiftly with a grin.   
  
  
  
  
The stranger was indeed an old man, with a long, shaggy beard, a large nose, and laughably bushy eyebrows. He was as ragged as any beggar, wrapped in a grey cloak full of thorn-picks and clumsy patches. He walked with a tall, straight staff of a light colored wood, knurled and twisted at the top, set with a small, water-clear crystal. On his head was a battered grey hat with a wide brim and a tall, pointed crown - unlike anything any of them had ever seen. He smelled of burnt leaves and cider.  
  
The horse, Readfah noted immediately, was a sorry sight - with a hollow neck, too-large ears, and a pendulous lower lip. She stroked his cheek and spoke softly to him before greeting anyone else. His saddle bore several deep scratches though it was well made, possibly in the North, and the bridle and bit, though now grass stained, had once been fair. Though he inspired pity from most of the Elves, she could see he was not ill-treated, for his lop ears pricked forward at the sound of his master's voice, his coat was groomed and he had a kindly and contented eye. He was not lame, in spite of the alarming number of bumps and knobs on his crooked legs, and his big feet were well shod.  
  
Galadriel, whom Readfah had not seen in almost a thousand years, was little changed. She wore a slim gown of silver stuff, and her hair was unbound. She regarded Readfah impassively, though Readfah knew that the Lady was no happier to see her then than on the day she first rode into Caras Galadhon. Yet, her aura seemed far quieter, as if she had at last mastered herself. She was, in truth, more at ease than she might have been had Celebrían and Arwen not been in Imladris, and Elladan and Elrohir not gone months ago with a troop of Gondorrim.  
  
Celeborn greeted her far more warmly, which did not pass unnoticed by anyone. Was there a flicker of comprehension in the visitor's eyes? Readfah had been struck at once...no elf he, but no stranger to their ways or their wisdom.  
  
"I see that you indeed have a gift for horses," he said nodding to her, and his voice was deep and rich, overlaid with but little of the rasp of age. The statement would have sent any of the Éothéod into fits of laughter, but Readfah merely thanked him. She had the feeling that he already knew who she was, what she was, and everything she had done since she was born.   
  
He turned to Galadriel. "Lead us to the place you have prepared, Lady."  
  
Readfah followed meekly, for she had been inside the gates but once, and the City of Trees was as breathtaking as ever it had been. Scores of Elves lined the balconies of the great dwellings to watch them pass, and as always, even in midmorning, the lights were aglow deep in the heart of the wood. They did not go far, for Galadriel brought them to a secluded nook sunk next to a mallorn root, as large as a room. There she had chairs brought and set beneath the tree, and a lamp was brought and hung from a low branch. The stranger wasted no time with preliminaries.  
  
"I have sent for you, Mistress Readfah," he began, "To ask if you have ever seen an object like this."  
  
He drew from his bosom a ring, and held it on his palm and then upon the tip of his finger. Readfah's eyes grew wide, for it was nearly the twin of Gil-galad's - no - Elrond's ring, save that the stone in this one glowed a rich, warm red, like embers in a fire. Like the Sapphire, the stone was cut and set as a curved cylinder that took up where the burnished gold left off in it's graceful sweep around the old man's fingertip, then seemed to flow into the gold again. Where the pale gold of Elrond's ring was a band of raised cloudlike shapes, this one had layers of rose, yellow and white gold in a staggered pattern suggesting flame.  
  
She leaned forward as far as she dared - her eyes tried to follow the warm red light into the core of the gold band. The blue ring had been just as fascinating, though it evoked pictures of a clear evening sky with a tiny star that tantalized by disappearing when looked at directly. Memories began to assail her, and for a moment she forgot that she was not alone in the dell under the tree.  
  
Suddenly he snatched the ring from her view and regarded her sternly. "I see that you have. No, no words are necessary!"  
  
"Where did you get that?" she demanded hoarsely.  
  
"Answer my question first...the Sapphire...have you ever handled it? Or worn it, even for a short time?"  
  
Readfah grew sullen and jerked her chin at him. "I don't even know who you are!"   
  
Galadriel spoke for the first time, and her gentle tone surprised Readfah. "Please, Readfah, tell him whatever he wishes to know! I have not been your friend, but neither do I wish you ill!"  
  
"First, say how he comes to bear Círdan's ring!"  
  
"Harrumph! You know more of these things than even I supposed! Círdan met me at Lhûn, and entrusted this ring to me himself. More I cannot reveal now."  
  
Readfah gritted her teeth. "Am I to take your word that you are not a robber, and that Círdan does not lie dead at the Havens?"  
  
The old man chuckled. "No, he is alive and well, do trust me! I would that all Elves were as careful as you, though you are not all Elf, are you?" He smiled at Readfah' startled gasp.  
  
"You have handled the Sapphire wrought by your cousin Celebrimbor, yet I see you have not worn it," he continued. "Gil-galad and Elrond chose their guardian wisely. Yes, I have been to Imladris, as you named it, and I have seen Elrond. Vilya is still safe in his care. He told me...all. Yet because you have handled it, indeed, only because you know of it's existence, I had to speak with you to see how the knowledge affected you. Because of this ring I now bear, I know whose child you are, where you have lived, with whom, and whom you have loved." His dark eyes clouded with sorrow as he saw the pain in her face.  
  
"Who ARE you?" she choked.   
  
"The Men of the North have named me Gandalf," he said carefully.  
  
" 'Walks as do Elves'?"** she hastily translated into the Sindarin which they had been speaking.  
  
"A true daughter of the Horsemen!" he said approvingly. "You see, when I am among Men, they think of me as a strange species of Elf, and Elves take me for a Man, at least at first. But who I am is of little consequence right now, and what I am is of even less. It is why I am here that should concern all of you. Troublous times are coming to the West, though they will not come to fruit for many a year. Know that I am your friend and ally! Your people, that is, the Horsemen, already look at me askance, for it seems I am fated to bring ill news! Dark times will come. And Elves are leaving the Mortal Lands for the Undying as we speak, and soon they will be left for Men to rule."  
  
Galadriel was silent, and Readfah thought she saw a change wash over her like a gentle wave.  
  
"Are you then come," Galadriel asked softly, "as harbinger of the end of Time?"  
  
Gandalf smiled ruefully. "It is to be hoped not, Lady! But indeed the time of Elves draws to a close."  
  
  
  
Gandalf remained among the Elves of Lórien for a long while, and they gathered around him as children do a kindly grandfather. He did not reveal who he truly was, or whence he came, but they knew in their hearts he had been sent to aid them in the coming time of trial, and they loved him.   
  
Readfah did not return to her home for several days, for she was not immune to the pull he exerted. Sometimes he seemed to know everything, yet other times he was forgetful and funny. Many nights they spent by the lodgings he was given, sitting by a fire telling tales. One such night, Ponder and Orophin rode in from scouting, and Gandalf was filling his pipe preparatory to settling down after supper. He had what the Elves deemed a strange habit, that of stuffing crumpled leaves into a wooden pipe and sucking the smoke into his mouth. It appeared to do little harm to him, and it accounted for the peculiarly pleasant smell his clothes bore, but it amazed them all the same.  
  
"It grows wild," he explained, showing them some of the leaf, "but no doubt some day it will be cultivated. It grows well in the North, near the Hithaeglir."  
  
Readfah was only half listening, her one experience with the weed several nights ago having left her breathless and the butt of jokes the rest of the night, was studying Gandalf's staff. No runes were carved upon it, but there were a thousand ripples and twists in the top, near where the crystal was set, and pictures seemed to suggest themselves. On a flat area near the front it was plain, but outlined was what appeared to be a horse's head in silhouette.  
  
Without thinking, Readfah took a metal arrowhead from Ponder's quiver and gave the crude profile features; an eye, a flared nostril, an open mouth. She was just finishing the details of a mane flowing into the grain of the wood, when she noticed that Gandalf had stopped talking and was looking at her with a jaundiced eye.  
  
"Elves," he announced, "are by far of all beings the most inquisitive..."  
  
He strode over to her and grabbed the staff. "Let me see what mischief you have wrought," he said in a tone of exasperation. "Hmm...not bad. But do ask leave before decorating my things!"  
  
Seeing that she was contrite, he softened, and looked at her for a long time, thoughtfully. "Readfah it is...'red guilt'...bloodstain...it is your father-name, no doubt. Come, talk to me."  
  
She drew aside with him into a bower, still in sight of the fire. For all her long years in the world, she felt like a child in his presence. Before long she had poured out her whole story, but she had the feeling he already knew it all.  
  
"Of course you still have a purpose in this world!" he exclaimed. "You have been hiding here, from what...or who? Elrond? He has not forgotten you! But if it is children you wish, then there is but one thing to do."  
  
"The Lady..." she began, then stopped, for she at once knew that she had no secrets from him, and he knew what Galadriel had done to her. Yet she could not feel ashamed or dishonored in his presence.  
  
"Has it not occurred to you that the barriers she placed upon you have no effect on Mortals? You might have taken a husband at any time, from among Men."  
  
  
  
  
* Dreadnaught  
** Gan - from the OE/ proto-Rohirric "to march" or "to walk", + dalf or d'alf, "as Elves." 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Author's Notes:  
This is a vast jump in time, but I wanted to get on with the story. Read in the Appendix at the end of LOTR "The House of Eorl" and the timeline for the Third Age for some background on this. 

Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Nineteen

In two thousand and more years, Men had often seen the great swathes left in the grass by Readfah's horses, but they had seldom if ever seen the herders. The size of the herd changed constantly, and some years they did not appear at all. Readfah, as always, gave away many horses, (and did not disdain to spirit a few away as well) but Men often thought her animals to be wild offspring of good quality runaways that wandered into their herds by night, and so she made it seem. She had never marked or branded her horses in any way, for she could call one out of a herd of a thousand, and it would come to her without hesitation. But, because unmarked, there was always the possibility of thievery. Readfah was usually quite glad to give a horse, or horses, wherever needed, but felt it should be her option. Not for a moment did she think her attitude unfair, for was she not the only one gifted so, to know by instinct where each belonged, when, and to whom?

-----------------------------------------------

"Mistress, I would speak with you."

A bay mare stood before Readfah in an almost formal manner. Readfah nodded first to Dryarrin's young great-grandson, who had been helping her that spring morning, and telling him to go play with his friends. He grinned and ran down the path to the woods. He looks so much like Dry', Readfah thought wistfully. Her decision not to take a husband still weighed heavily on her at times, even though she had never forgotten Gandalf - whom the Elves called Mithrandir - and his comforting words. I have plenty of time, she assured herself, should I change my mind, and the right man come along.

"Yes, Willa?" Readfah turned to the mare, who seemed anxious in spite of her tall dignity.

"There are thieves, Mistress. My son has been stolen."

"Stolen!" For a heartbeat Readfah froze in terror. "Not wolves?" Wolves had wreaked disaster in the herd more than once, usually in the Spring when foals were small.

The mare's eyes showed white and she shook her head. "Na-ay...human thieves. They are the tall yellowhaired ones."

She blew out her cheeks in relief, but this news was indeed strange."What? Why ever should they, when they may have what they need for the asking?"

"I know not the ways of humans," said the mare. "But perhaps his white coat drew their eyes to him."

"Are you not still nursing him?"

"I dropped him last Spring. I am with foal again, and my milk is nearly gone. But I knew you had said that it was not yet time for the seed of the Eärroch to leave your herd."

"That is so," Readfah agreed. "Do you know where they have taken him?"

"To the North. No time to go far."

With no further word Willa stood for Readfah to mount, though they were not bonded. Readfah's own mount, Hefera, was elderly and it was that transition time between retiring one and bonding with another. This white foal had looked promising enough, and he already spoke clearly.

He was the only known son of a white stallion who had wandered into her herd from the North a year ago. From the first Readfah knew him to be one of the immortal horses from West-over-Sea, though she had, strangely, never gotten close enough to him to learn more. He had never spoken, though she knew well that he could, and the others in the herd who had the gift called him only the Eärroch, the Sea horse, for Readfah had the odd feeling he had a name, and had never been moved to give him another.

And someone had come, and out of all her vast herd picked his only son. They knew horses, that much was certain. The longer she rode the angrier she got, until she was within sight of her house.

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"He surely is a wild one, sir!"

A tall broadshouldered man with a a pair of long yellow braids smiled at his enthusiastic young servant. He unbuckled his leather leggings and let them fall off his thick, muscular thighs, enjoying the cool air on his sweaty skin. In a stout pen of lashed saplings a white colt paced, whistling in frustration, stopping to rear and paw the ground now and then. A light froth dripped from his supple flanks. He arched his neck, wheeling this way and that, but the horsemaster, Léod, knew his business too well. There was no escape.

"He knows what we're saying, Nica, I'll be bound! Look at his eyes! I have never seen one so full of fire...scarce a yearling and look at the size of him...best colt I've ever seen!"

"Sir!" called out another man from a distance. "The other horses have disappeared!"

Léod shrugged. "We have done a good day's work capturing this one. We have time."

"He should fetch a good price," commented Nica.

"Price! That colt is going nowhere but under my own backside and between the haunches of my best mares!" Léod laughed . "It isn't every day that a stud like that is to be gotten free!" The others in the horsehunting party smiled at the earthy words, and prepared to set up camp.

"Young Master Eorl may fight you for him, sir!" Nica dared to say, though her tone was bantering.

Léod beamed with pride even as he chuckled indulgently. "He may indeed! But my son loves me - he may spare me this one and settle for his first son!"

Soon the smell of a hearty game stew was tempting their appetites, and they gnawed some leathery but sweet dried apples while they waited for it to finish cooking. The store of ale was low, so they drank water they had collected that morning not far from the Golden Wood.

"Blodige'll!"¹ sputtered one as he took a long draught that reddened his already ruddy face."T'is as cold as when we first filled the skins!"

"I have heard strange tales of that stream, Fahru," said another, older man named Donnic.

"Phaugh!" Léod huffed, though good naturedly. "Next you'll be telling us of the Sorceress and her Elves!"

"Elves still live in that Wood," asserted Donnic,"Though perhaps not as many as before."

"Oh what can you expect from a 'red-shield' but rumor of Elves? Half his people believe Readfah still rides, if she ever once did!" snorted Fahru, whose people had lived in villages for generations and did not share the beliefs of those whose ancestors had lived along the Anduin before Frumgar gathered them all to the North. Donnic had descended from Éoghan the Merciless through Brinhaw and her son Tovig, though the stories of Tovig and his brother Held riding to war with the Ælfenking were looked upon now as fairytales.

Léod frowned. "I believe she did. Once. Too many of the tales agree. But if she did, she must be long dead. And if she was, as some say, an Elf who lived in what was called the Lady's Wood, she must have departed with her people. No one alive claims to have seen her as our grandfathers' grandfathers say they did."

"No," Donnic still spoke softly, but there was fire in his pale eyes. "For no man lives who is brave enough to dare the borders of Dwimordene."

Oddly, for the Éothéodias loved nothing better than a good argument, no one felt like disputing with him, and they went back to their ration of apples. Léod glanced uneasily at the picketed horses, and the colt, now standing almost unnaturally still in the pen. Did his imagination deceive him, or did the colt stare balefully back at him? Or was it merely the indignity of being captured reflected in his large, dark eyes? Léod watched him for a moment. He does not yet know he will be treated as a prince among horses...the best of fodder, safeguarded pastures, and all the mares he can cover. He is young and wild, but I will teach him well, he thought. He then turned appreciatively to the savory bowl of stew handed him, and forgot about the colt for a time.

-------------------------------------------------

Elrond stopped to give some instructions to two outriders as Celebrían prepared for yet another trip to Lórien. He was usually glad to see her go, but now, with a pang he was surprised to feel, he realized he would miss her. Over the years her companionship had been a comfortable thing, though they had led essentially separate lives. Elrond might have been surprised to know that his wife felt the same way, for she had always regretted the loss of the easy friendship she had shared with him when Gil-galad was alive and Readfah was still the jolly mistress of a house ringing with laughter and song.

Arwen was to accompany her, and return when her brothers were expected back from a year-long expedition with the Edain in South Gondor. They would be taking the mountain passes, for bands of orcs had been seen along the easier paths by the river.

Orcs...that worried Elrond. Mithrandir had warned of a coming time of trial. The strange pilgrim who bore Círdan's ring had prophesied all too often of doom if they were caught unprepared. The increase in the numbers of orcs, the growing unrest among Men, and the strange presence in Dol Guldur all were related, he was sure. The weariness he was just beginning to feel - the sense of having landed at the bottom of yet another mountain that must be scaled - was stronger today. If only he could once feel that his sacrifices had not been, and would not be, in vain.

He watched as several large chests were brought down the stairs. Why is she taking all that? he wondered.

"Mother does not intend to come back," Arwen's musical voice came from behind him. He turned to find his daughter standing by the great fireplace, her hand on the smoothworn green crystal in the mantel-edge that had been Readfah's touchstone.

For a moment he did not speak, stung with guilt. Arwen's hand on THAT stone...as if she knew.

"Not coming back? Why, whatever..."

"Father, you have never lied to me before. Don't begin now." Arwen's luminous, dove colored eyes, so much like his own, met his with a depth of understanding and reproach that made him tremble. "I know, and so do Elladan and Elrohir, that you and Mother did not wed for love."

Elrond's eyes closed and he sighed, both in relief and sadness. My little girl has grown up. He turned away from her.

"Father..." Arwen's voice did not break, but he could tell it was close to doing so.

"Why have you waited so long to speak of this?" he asked the wall before him.

"I could ask the same of you," Arwen said with the barest hint of reproach. "My brothers never wanted to say anything, for they felt it was none of their concern. Elrohir has taken it well...or hides it well perhaps...but Elladan has always carried a thorn in his soul about it. And so have I."

He turned to her then, and her tears spilled when she saw his tortured eyes. "Mother will say only that you both loved others. She will not say more. Please, Father! You must tell me...are we... yours?"

A smile twitched his cheek for an instant. "You may rest easy, if that is what troubles you," he embraced her and kissed her forehead. For all her years, she was still very young indeed if she could not look into a mirror and see whose daughter she was. And if his sons did not resemble him quite as much, with Gil-galad's very smile perpetually on Elrohir's lips and Celeborn's wise and sometimes weary patience flickering over Elladan's brow, there was still enough of Elrond about them to mark them as his.

"But that is not all that troubles me!" she exclaimed angrily, as he turned from her and toward the library, ever his refuge. "Will neither of you say what is in your hearts? Do you think we are still little children?"

"Come in here, where I may speak to you in the way you would have me," Elrond matched actions to words, opening the doors wide. No scribes were at work today, so they were alone. He indicated that she should sit, but she was too upset to do so.

"This woman you love, is she still, are you..." Arwen babbled unhappily. "Have you been...with her all along, even wed to Mother?"

The question seemed almost laughable to Elrond, whose struggle to resist the temptation to pursue Readfah was still as new as if she had left yesterday. "No. When I had to wed your mother she left Imladris."

"Had to wed Mother? What do you mean 'had to'?"

"Your mother was betrothed to Gil-galad. You and your brothers are his heirs, through me. Your grandmother, no doubt thinking she was helping...placed a bond on them that only I could fulfill, being his heir, once he was dead. I had to marry her, and the one I loved left me." Elrond's tone was dull, as if he had repeated the story to himself so often as to believe it. "The bond Galadriel wove had to do with the safety of the Elven realms, and if we refused to wed all our kind would have been lost. There was no choice before us."

Arwen listened in silence, more attuned to her father's grief than his words.

"I have said enough," he , after a long pause. "Go with your mother, now, child, and may the Valar protect you both."

"But, Father..."

"Go!" It was the only time in his life he had ever raised his voice to her, but he could not bear her presence any longer. Arwen rushed from the library in tears, and Elrond sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

---------------------------------------------

"Well I like that!" Readfah whispered to Ponder as the two of them lay side by side on their bellies on a rise behind some rocks, spying on the men they had tracked to the Northern Plains. It was now late summer, and Willa's white colt, now a year and a half old and of near full stature, stood trembling, saddled and bridled. He pawed the ground while a tall horseman patted his neck and spoke patiently to him.

"Are you going to ask to have him back," chuckled Ponder, "or will we steal him?"

"He will come to us on his own. He's grown quite a bit, so I have no doubt they will attempt to mount him soon, to get him used to his trappings," she replied, ignoring his jest. "In truth, I had expected he would have scented us by now."

No sooner had she spoken than the colt's head flew up and he whistled frantically in their direction. The man looked their way too, but saw nothing, as they were out of range of his sight.

"What do you see, lad?" Léod spoke softly. Indeed, had this colt been one of his own breeding he would have been gentled long before now, for horses loved him and he loved them. This one had so - much - will, though. It was far too easy to break their spirits and force them to accept a rider, which was contrary to the traditions of his people. He smiled as he thought of the conversation he and his assistants had had about Readfah a few months back. Whether she had existed or not, whether she was a daughter of Béma himself or merely a great teacher of her time, he knew only that his ancestors had been more gifted in horsemanship than any other Mortal men and the credit was hers. Either way, if he had known she was watching him from less than two arrow flights away, he would have fainted.

"Look!" Readfah said, "he is going to mount him! Alone...where are all the men he had with him?"

"Hunting, on foot I think," Ponder replied. "There he goes, he..."

They both sat up in alarm as the colt reared, screamed, and bolted in their direction. The man had an excellent seat, and seemed to expect this behavior, for he remained calm and crouched low over the animal's withers.

"Pon', he will try to stop him below!" Readfah exclaimed. There was no way to move without being seen. Shouts rang out from a distance...two of the assistants had appeared, carrying what looked like several rabbits. Their horses danced on their tethers.

It all happened so fast Readfah scarcely had time to breathe. The colt screamed again, stumbled at the base of the ridge and, throwing his rider headlong, clambered in three strides up to the top and stopped just yards from where Readfah and Ponder huddled together behind a boulder.

The man had fallen heavily, striking his head on a sharp rock, and was still. Ponder gathered his wits first and leapt down to him, while still afar off, his companions were just mounting their own horses. Readfah shouted to the colt in Sindarin, and he disappeared into a wooded draw where Willa, and Zee, Ponder's horse, stood hidden. Then she followed Ponder down to where the tall horseman lay.

"He's dying," Ponder murmured in Laiquendi. Readfah did not gainsay him, but knelt beside the man and pressed his hand between hers.

With an effort Léod tried to focus his eyes on her. His fading consciousness took in the russet hair and the tapered ears, and he smiled. The tales were true. "Readfah..." he rasped.

She swallowed hard and clasped his hand tighter. "Help is coming," she assured him in his own tongue. But Léod was beyond hearing. He died, and his last thought was that Béma had favored him with a vision of the Modoréothéodias, the Mother of Horsemen whom he had never quite believed in.

His men rode up silently, divining what had happened. They could not conceal their wonder at the presence of two who were obviously Elvish folk, but as yet no one spoke. Behind them dismounted a stout, handsome youth, who pushed his way toward the fallen man.

"Father!" he cried, and knelt opposite Readfah, clutching at the other stiffening hand. He did not turn his flaming blue eyes from his father's until Readfah gently took both of Léod's hands and folded them on his breast. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Grief and amazement warred in his boyish face.

"Who are you?" he demanded of Readfah, ignoring Ponder's sudden, indignant intake of breath. Without waiting for a reply, he bent over his father again, his hair a river of gold across the broad, still chest, his clenching fingers groping for his father's cold hands. For several uncomfortable moments there was silence, save for the boy's weeping, which was all the more heartrending for his fierce effort to control it. Readfah would have liked to comfort him, but she knew the traditions of the Horsemen; they would have scorned such a gesture unless he had been far younger. Indeed, had he been a year or so older, he would have been expected to bear his father's death as silently as the men around him, some of whom had loved him scarcely less than he had.

One of the men pulled his gaze from the tragic scene and trained it on the two strangers. As Léod had, Donnic grew pale when he saw they were indeed of the Deathless Ones- and wondered what omen their presence bespoke. And then, he saw the little red embroidered horsehead on Readfah's tunic, and his own heart pounded.

"Master Eorl," he said softly. "Young master..."

The boy looked up with red rimmed eyes. "He should have died in peace in my mother's arms fifty summers from now!" he blurted angrily. "Not by the work of that accursed horse and under the hands of strangers!"

He looked at Readfah again, his youth perhaps not allowing him a clear mind-picture of his people's oldest legend. "Madam, I would pursue that renegade! Did you see whence he escaped?"

She met Ponder's eyes briefly, and shook her head in the negative. She had only told the colt to run - she had not watched him do it.

"Do you speak our tongue, Madam?" the boy persisted.

"Ic gemæle't mearc-geþiod' gelic'ceaste',"² she replied. If they had known of a certainty who she was, her reply would have seemed mocking, but it was lost on the boy. Donnic swayed, finally able to hold his peace no longer.

"It is Readfah!" he said loud enough for all to hear, and his men all looked at him as if he had gone mad.

Readfah rose and looked pityingly down on Eorl, who still looked at his father's face, his fleeting hope turning swiftly to anger. Then she turned to Donnic, whose eyes shifted to her feet as if he feared her.

"My name is indeed Readfah, and I am gratified to know I am remembered." It was an old speech for her, but a trusty one. All the men but Donnic simply stared at her, while he, who had championed her all his life, sank to his knee and bowed his head.

"Time is wasting!"growled the impatient youth, rising to his feet. "I will find the horse who carried my father to his death. Two of you follow me! The rest of you take my father home, and say to my mother that I will come soon."

Readfah marveled at the air of command in one so young. Donnic, seeing this, forgot his shyness and spoke quietly aside to her. "His father is chief of four clans, as close to a king as our people have ever had. He is - was - two and forty years of age, the youngest to hold such high office, and his son is but sixteen."

Sixteen...Readfah looked up on the top of the ridge where Eorl and Ponder had climbed. She could not help but compare the two. The elf stood but little taller, slim, well muscled, dark hair in a queue...the mortal youth ruddy and thickset, yet slender waisted, with loose, honey-colored hair and eyes like the sky. Memories again...Faramir of Númenor and Sig of the Éothéod, facing off warily like two young stallions before deciding on friendship.

"He should go home and bury his father," Readfah said bluntly.

"Yes, Madam, he should. But he is headstrong, as his father was in his youth. Please tell me how you came to be here." The abrupt change of subject made her jump.

"I have believed you were real all my life," he said simply. "Even when my friends made fun of me and said I must believe in the Yule-Father as well. I was never sure if you had remained when so many of your folk went to the Sea, but I knew you were real. But why are you here now? Is your coming an omen of Eorl's passage to manhood? There are those who would make him our King."

"No indeed," said Readfah, "for I have known nothing of my mother's people for many years."

"Emissaries have come North from Cirion of Gondor. He means to make alliances, or perhaps I should say renew them, for there are troubles away South. At first some of us feared they meant to make us subject to them, for we have no ruler, and the clans seldom agree on anything."

"I wish them good luck trying!" Readfah smiled. Then, looking back, and seeing Léod's body being lifted up onto a litter between two horses, her face grew sad again.

"The boy should go home," she repeated.

"He will not, until his father is avenged. He means to kill that horse, if I know him. Here is his cousin Hægir now," he indicated a slim young man with light auburn hair and bright eyes who was leading the horses in their direction.

Readfah went numb...kill the colt? Not while she lived!

Eorl and Ponder were still several yards ahead of them, and the horses were still in the wooded patch, out of sight of the men, but well visible to Readfah. As the Mark horses came up from behind, she signaled to Willa and Zee to come to them, and the colt to go home. This created enough of a stir that she felt he might safely get away. Even young Eorl, in his anger, stood in awe as she and Ponder mounted their unsaddled horses gracefully. It was then he began to really notice Readfah for the first time. His face grew even redder when she turned to him and spoke sharply.

"Dol, forheardes' hafelad'e cnabe'!³ Your place is with your mother!"

His chin stiffened and he threw back his head proudly as he mounted his own horse, a well made gold and white stallion. "With all respect, madam, my mother is a woman of the Mark, and she understands what I must now do!"

Out of the corner of his eye he spied a white flash - the colt, no longer hidden by the trees - speeding South on seemingly winged hoofs.

"There he is!" Eorl shouted, shouldering his bow and legging his horse into a gallop. "Run if you will, Mansbane! It will not serve you!"

They were away then, the three of the Mark, and after exchanging a startled glance, Readfah and Ponder followed. Away into the plains they gave chase. He was tireless, and most of the time was out of their sight, but Readfah knew she dared not allow the boy to reach the colt before she did.

--------------------------------------------

¹Bloody hell! A common epithet, but not a spiritual term in Éothéod. Hell refuse pit.

²"I speak the language like a native."

³Foolish, stubborn (hardheaded) boy!


	20. Chapter Twenty

Author's Notes:  
Sorry for the long delay! Muse on strike. No longer.  
  
Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty  
`  
`  
`  
Eorl's fury had not lessened. He had ridden hard on the heels of the white colt that had thrown his father to his death, and the longer he rode the more determined he was to capture him. He neither knew nor cared who the elvish woman and her companion were. If they thought to stop him they were fools indeed!  
  
Willa's pregnancy had slowed her, and Readfah was content just to keep the men within tracking distance. They had paused for water and a brief rest, for their quarry had taken himself into the foothills below Caradhras, and it was in a small grove by a stream that she found them.  
  
Eorl had dismounted and walked away from the rest of them swiftly, uttering stinging oaths to the air. Neither Donnic nor Hægir remonstrated with him, perhaps knowing from experience the futility of words when he was in such a mood. But Readfah followed him apart from the others into a shaded nook. She did not call to him. In his very movements she could read his overwhelming sadness, and pitied him - wishing she could say something to assuage it. At last he looked up, hands on hips, panting with exhaustion and rage, his very hair trembling like a waterfall of gold. Seeing her standing quietly near, his face reddened and he strode to her, drawing a hand back. As he did so he heard his father's voice - "Strike any woman and you strike your mother!" - a teaching so old in the Éothéod it never needed to be written as law. He lowered his hand with an effort, fist still clenched.  
  
"Why have you pursued me?" he shouted. "You will not deprive me of my right to avenge my father!"  
  
"A horse fears not death, only pain," she retorted levelly. "And I will not suffer you to inflict either on him!"  
  
"You - will not? Who - are - you?"   
  
"I am Readfah," she replied, as she had times without number replied to the same question over the centuries. "And the colt is mine."  
  
Eorl's lip twitched as he looked down upon her - his first impulse to laugh and brush her aside.  
  
"Readfah, is it? And the colt is yours? Well, if you are the Readfah I have heard so much about, then perhaps you will tell me what I must do."  
  
She knew he was mocking her, but she replied in earnest.  
  
"Make him your servant. It is just, it quenches anger and it wastes no life."  
  
"Make him...?" Eorl turned upon her, his expression that of mixed incredulity and scorn. "What can a horse know of justice? If my father could not gentle him no one can!"  
  
"There's where you are wrong. The horses of this line are different. You must speak to him."  
  
"Are you mad?" he was past his anger now, and merely gave in to his desire to laugh.  
  
She still gave him no quarter, and advanced a step, her eyes bright, her brow arched. "I did not live all these years under a bushel, young sir! And I did not survive the Dark One through madness! It is as I say. Speak to him, and tell him he must serve you and why, and he will obey."  
  
He stopped laughing, and blinked. His eyes narrowed with a shrewdness well sharpened for one so young.  
  
"Why would you give him to me, if he is yours? And what if you are wrong...about him obeying?"  
  
Her lip curved upward and the glitter in her eyes became a twinkle.  
  
"I give him to you because I choose to. And if I am wrong?" she shrugged. "What harm in trying, eh?" Then her voice became soft and serious. "If I am wrong, we will eat his flesh, you and I. But I am not wrong."  
  
Eorl shuddered at the mention of eating horseflesh. Had his ancestors truly done so? Perhaps even she...He caught himself looking at her mouth, and with a shock realized he was beginning to believe her.  
  
"Yes, I have eaten many horses," she bared her teeth at him. "Your fathers learned to eat the horses not fit for work. It wasn't a bad idea, when there was need. But now only the Wild Men take the culls of my herd for food."  
  
She saw something in his eyes and smiled. "No, I no longer do so. Spring lamb is more to my taste."  
  
She had read his mind, and not once but twice! His eyes grew round and for a moment, only a moment, he felt his knees quaking...no! There was no place for weakness in him now. He was the leader of four clans, maybe more, if the clan councils had their way. If there was to be a kingship in the Mark it would be his. He straightened and in the next heartbeat found his dignity. There was, after all, little to lose now that the father he had so loved lay dead.  
  
"Now," she said, when she was satisfied that he would at least consider her words, "let me tell you what you must do..."  
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The colt stood in the open, unmoving, and watched them warily, poised for flight. He seemed to recognize his dam, who stood with the others further off, for he responded to her soft nicker, but he never took his eyes off Eorl, who had dismounted. He walked forward slowly and stopped as soon as he saw the colt tensing to make a break.  
  
"Come hither, Mansbane!" he cried out."And get a new name!"  
  
The colt's expression told Eorl he was understood. He was bonded to no one, so any name he might have been called was not a true one. His proud head flew up, and he stood very still. Then, to the wonder of his men, the colt stepped cautiously toward the youth.  
  
When at last the colt stood before him, Eorl spoke to him again.   
  
"You threw my father to his death for your freedom, and I would have killed you for it. You may thank the lady you see yonder for your life, for she says you are an honorable beast and must be spared. Therefore, Felaróf* I name you..." he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, and declared the horse's freedom forfeit in return for the loss of his father.  
  
He then mounted Felaróf and rode him to and fro in the manner of Elves, with no harness or bridle, and, as Readfah had said, the horse was placid and biddable beneath him. They looked magnificent, thought Readfah, watching them learn from each other like dancers taking their first tentative steps together.  
  
Ponder stepped near to Readfah and spoke softly to her while Eorl's amazed kinsmen ran to his side.  
  
"You're going to make him a gift of that horse after all?"   
  
It was hard to tell whether Ponder was frustrated or merely amused. Readfah did not turn at his words, but nodded.   
  
"They are both the first of their lines, so it is fit they should bond."   
  
Ponder had seldom concerned himself with the doings of men. "Do you think that his people will make him their king?"  
  
"Look at him, friend Galvorn!" she exclaimed, as Eorl rode past them at a collected gallop, the quality of both man and beast evident in every sinew of their strong and faultless young bodies. "Look at him and tell me that he is not already King of the Mark!"  
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Later, Readfah called Willa to her side.  
  
"Yes Mistress?" the mare nodded.  
  
"I wish for you also to go with the Men of the North, along with your son."  
  
"That would give me joy, Mistress, but great sorrow as well, in being parted from you."   
  
Readfah stroked the mare's glossy neck and they stood for a long while, muzzle to cheek, bidding each other farewell.  
  
"You will be treated with all kindness, fear not. I would not part with you otherwise. But, Willa, they need you. A new nation of my mother-kin is soon coming to birth. My gift to their new king must be a rich one indeed, richer than any I have ever given the sons of Men. You carry a sister to Felaróf within you now. Her line with their stallions and his with their mares shall begin the line of the kings of horses. My mother's people called the first sons of the elf-horses from over Sea the Mearas, and so shall the children of your children be known."  
  
The mare then turned and went to stand with her son. Eorl, who was grooming him, looked up, puzzled. But Readfah had walked swiftly away, so that no one would see her weep.  
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They tarried there for another night, Eorl spending most of that time speaking to his new horse, and Readfah riding hers, for upon learning that she had bestowed Willa on him, and further learning that argument with her was as useless as it was with him, he insisted on giving her Hwistlan, his stallion. She found his gold and white pied coat attractive, his demeanor amiable and spirited, and she was pleased with him on the whole. But she knew that she would not bond with him, for the choice had not been his. Felaróf, on the other hand, had chosen Eorl, even if the choice had been influenced by his sense of duty, and they were well on the way to becoming brothers.  
  
In the morning, as they prepared to follow their separate paths, she embraced them all, one by one. Donnic asked Readfah if they would ever meet again.  
  
"I am no soothsayer, my dear Donnic, but I think we shall, and very soon."  
  
"Think you so, Madam?"   
  
"Yes. Yes I do. It has been long since I have traveled very far, and too long since I have seen my mother's people. In the next year or so, after the foals are come, I will see you again."  
  
Little did she know how true her words were, and still less did she dream of the manner that they would come to pass.  
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The night seemed darker than usual, and cooler than a summer night should have been. Elrohir pulled his soft, grey finewool cape a bit tighter around his shoulders. He leaned closer to the tiny fire Elladan had started in a small hillside hollow just big enough to shelter them.  
  
"They are denning everywhere," he whispered, more to himself than to Elladan, though his brother looked up through a thatch of shining dark hair, brows raised.   
  
"I don't smell any orcs here...haven't scented them for some miles."  
  
"There are more of them than I remember. Something is far wrong."  
  
"Father will know," Elladan said confidently. "If not Grandmother."  
  
Upon a stout green limb he spitted the young grouse he had shot earlier, and set it to roast. He studied the fine line of smoke that rose, hoping it wouldn't attract anything. He nodded slightly as it meandered into the shallow cave behind them. At last he relaxed.  
  
"If our timing is right we will probably meet Mother in Grandmother's wood," he glanced over with some satisfaction at the horses they had obtained in Anórien. Northern animals, best to be had, the horse merchant had said. Elladan had ridden the very best all his life, and he had merely smiled, but they were certainly good, more than adequate. His own mount had been shot, and Elrohir's sorely lamed in a fierce ambush that lasted only minutes yet left six of their company dead.  
  
Easterlings, their Gondorric friends had called them - with grimaces that had lined faces and narrowed grey eyes to angry slits. They had not declared war, but it was coming swiftly. Ambushes, mysterious fires, an increase in numbers of orcs all pointed to the inevitable. A wave of evil was spreading over the land that seemed to have no single source.  
  
"Yes, she usually does go in summer. It's been two years since we have been in the Wood," mused Elrohir. "Funny, how that seems like a long time."  
  
"We should be there early tomorrow morning, if there is no trouble."  
  
A long silence fell while Elladan watched the bird's skin sizzle and blister over the fire, turning a deep golden brown with a rich smell that reminded him how hungry he was. That morning they had broken fast with a bit of fruit and had not touched the remains of the lembas, the elvish waybread that Galadriel had given them when they last visited her. Still fresh in their mallorn leaf wraps, the cakes had, by mutual agreement, been saved against utter starvation. The sons of Elrond had always been resourceful, and their father's lessons in the finding and preparing of edible, as well as medicinal, wild plants had saved their lives and those of their companions more than once. Thus, the store of waybread was still mostly uneaten.  
  
When the bird was done, they ate it quietly, sipped water, and settled down to rest with no further words. Fleetingly they each thought of how good it would be to be home again, in a comfortable bed and the world outside forgotten for a time.  
  
Home soon, Elrohir thought drowsily. From where he lay he could not see the stars, but he knew they shimmered overhead as they always had. Some things never changed...  
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The joy that had illuminated Galadriel's face upon seeing Elladan and Elrohir riding into Caras Galadhon had subsided to a quiet satisfaction, but now her eyes held a flicker of confusion.  
  
"Where is your mother? I thought you were to escort her."  
  
"She should have been here by now," Celeborn added worriedly, as he swiftly embraced his grandsons.  
  
"Mother?" Elrohir turned to Elladan, just as confused. "We have ridden straight from the South of Calenardhon, not Imladris. We thought to come here before going home."  
  
Galadriel's eyes met Celeborn's with a shock of premonition.  
  
"There is evil in those mountains now. They are coming through the Redhorn Pass, and that road has never loved Elves. The messages said Arwen would be journeying with her, too."  
  
"The passes are full of orcs! Better they should have come by the river road, or even traveled by water. We will ride straightaway to meet her." Elladan swept past and toward his horse.  
  
"These days they would have done better to stay where they were," Elrohir's expression was grim as he followed his brother.  
  
"You must rest," Celeborn advised. "You look weary, and you must have fresh horses. These look as though you have ridden them to death." Without consulting them any further, he called for food and wine, and sent for two horses.  
  
Reluctantly Galadriel agreed. "Yes, take your ease here for a while. We will all be together soon enough."  
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"We will rest here, milady," a tall outrider named Cereg called to Celebrían as the horses were called to a halt. Before them, the mountain passes wove up and up out of sight, and she was grateful they would push no further that day. She did not tire easily, but the road had been hard through the foothills, not the wide smooth paths she had been accustomed to take, and they had not made good time.  
  
She dismounted gracefully, wanting no more than a soft bed on which to lay herself. She wasn't even hungry. Those about her could not explain the lady's melancholy, for going home to Lórien was usually an occasion of joy to her. Even her daughter, who often brightened a long trip with song and laughter, was quiet. Only mother and daughter knew a reason for sadness, and for Celebrían it was made yet more bitter by guilt.  
  
She felt selfish and ungrateful, for in spite of loving another, Elrond had given her everything her heart desired. But he could not bring Gil-galad back. Nor could he soothe what she knew to be her vanity and fall in love with her himself, though if he had she would have been horrified. So, she had decided at last to leave Imladris for good. The beautiful home, the loving children, the comfort and safety from the mortal world - none had been enough for her - but how could it be, without her true mate? And what did she hope to find in Lothlórien save the soothing familiarity of her childhood?  
  
"What is that horrid smell?" she wondered as she walked along the edge of a small stream where they had earlier drawn water. Some kind of rot, she decided with a shudder of disgust, but there was with it a burnt-hair odor. As quickly as she had smelled it, it disappeared.   
  
Cereg's face darkened when she mentioned it, but he said nothing, fearing to frighten her.  
  
"Set an extra watch around the ladies," he murmured to two bodyguards, "while I..."  
  
A short, black arrow quivered in his throat and he fell forward into the first guard's arms. There was a whistle, and low cackling noises.  
  
"Orcs!" the guard hissed, lowering Cereg's body to the ground and shielding Celebrían, who had frozen in fear. She had never seen an orc in all her years, so well protected had she been, but she could smell and hear them now. And they were sorely outnumbered. Not even the best of Elrond's guardsmen had a chance, though many orcs died before they did.  
  
They came laughing from the hidden crevices, like a swarm of ugly insects. No no no....her fear mastered her, her teeth chattering, she felt bound and helpless in the long traveling gown. Her legs melted, and she wet herself. The horrid black shapes converged in her blurring sight, but not before she saw the blood spurt from the throat of the last guard between her and death. Another arrow twanged and struck her above her knee, through her skirts, and she felt the blood run.  
  
"Arwen!" she screamed as they took her, their smell burning into her nose, making her chest hurt and her stomach revolt. They were not going to kill her - not right away. They would not even pause long enough to allow her to be sick, and presently her dress was a ruin and she smelled as bad as they did.  
  
Celebrían did not go to her fate easily, and she fought valiantly until, exhausted and overwhelmed, she collapsed and was dragged up the mountainside. She could only think of Arwen, and that her lot would be the same. She was too afraid even to weep. At last they came to a well hidden cavern and she was thrown inside onto a pile of refuse. Her attackers wasted no time. She closed her eyes as they slavered and plucked at her clothing with their filthy fingers.  
  
Oh no no no not like this, and her mind went dull in a futile attempt to shield itself. The long suppressed vision of Gil-galad's last tortured moments of life attacked her mind and lay it open, with Sauron's laughter as backdrop.  
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Far below the reeking cavern, less than a mile from where Celebrían was taken, Ponder and Readfah exchanged puzzled glances at the echo of a woman's scream and the babble of voices bouncing from the rocks. Being Elves, and being armed, they turned from the River path and rode up into the hills...  
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*Felaróf - (OE) fel = skin, hide. ar = honor. óf /of = of or from. In the Éothéod skins were often used as blankets, so this may mean "covered in honor," or, if Eorl was of a more figurative turn of mind he may have meant that he was taking the horse's hide (his physical being) in payment of an honorable debt. Or, it may have been both. Elves were not the only masters of double entendre.  
  
(The "fel" syllable may also have been a slurring of "feld"= field; "field of honor" upon which the horse, having the understanding of a man, was called as an equal to forfeit his freedom to pay for Léod's life.) 


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

Author's notes:  
  
Hope you all enjoy it! My favorite parts are coming up!  
  
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Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-one  
  
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"My my my, ain't this a pretty piece of elf flesh?"  
  
Celebrían moaned, trying feebly and vainly to avoid the foul smell of the orcs hovering over her. She knew she would die if they touched her. They hadn't yet, not really - they seemed to be waiting for something. They had so far done no more than torture her with lewd mimeries of what they were going to do to her, and they had ripped her gown to shreds so she had little more than strips of cloth to protect what dignity remained to her. Their voices hurt her ears; their tongue felt to her like a kind of poison that crept into the spirit and did it's work slowly.  
  
"Bah! She won't last for all of us! And she'll be dead before it's our turn, as usual!" one complained.  
  
"Shut it, or I will!" snarled another, larger and fouler one. "Kargbaf's out looking for the other one now. She can't have got far, and when we haul that tasty piece in we'll have ourselves some sport!"  
  
"I don't see why we should wait for Karg..." yet another reached toward Celebrían's foot.  
  
"Because he's chief o' you pus-gummed lot, and he said to wait!" roared the big one, drawing a blood-caked short sword. "What's more, he said he'd take my head off if I let you touch her...he's to have her while she has the best fight in her."  
  
"Arghh, she ain't got any! Elvish wenches droop and die straight off!"  
  
"That black haired one won't. She's got a drop of Man-blood in her I'll wager," he said, licking his fingers in an obscene gesture peculiar to his race."This one's her mother, if I know any Elvish. What did you do, dearie?" he taunted Celebrían, though she understood none of it. "You part them pretty thighs for a Mortal, did you?"  
  
Just then a birdsong floated into the cavern, unnoticed by the orcs, but Celebrían's eyes flew open. It continued a moment, then ended on a questioning note. It couldn't be Readfah, she thought wildly. I'm dreaming. But the song recommenced, somewhat louder. If it was not Readfah it was still an Elf, a Wood Elf from home, most likely, who had heard her screams. How could she reply? She lay in desperation several more moments before an idea came to her.  
  
She giggled, at first softly, for she had no idea what they might do. Then she rolled her eyes and laughed aloud.  
  
"Eh? She's going mad on us!"  
  
"Thirty spiders webbed me here!" she trilled, putting the words to a familiar tune any Elf would know. "They will slay my little girl...if they can only find her!" she continued.  
  
"Har! Get up and do a dance!" one said, mimicking a few steps and motioning for her to get up.  
  
Celebrían made as if to do so, still singing and making wry grimaces, which seemed to amuse them.  
  
"She's lost her mind!" one laughed.  
  
"As if you had one of your own!" spat the big orc, going over to kick Celebrían in the ribs before she could rise. "This sly bitch is signaling her people! Idiot! We should have killed them all!"  
  
"We did! There were only a dozen, not counting the wenches. We got them all! I stabbed two in the back myself!"  
  
"Well, one got away," the big one said in disgust. "Or maybe more, trusty as the pack of you are! Tie her up! Let's go, all of you, move! No one stays... you'd be on her as soon as my back was turned! Let's hamstring that cursèd twittering songbird before he brings an army, and roast him alive! And as for you," he grinned at Celebrían with greenish, foul smelling fangs. He lowered his voice a little and spoke a broken Elvish she understood all too well. "Kargbaf or no Kargbaf, I'll see to it you're awake for what I've got to give you!"  
  
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"They figured it out," Ponder said gloomily, when Celebrían's song was cut abruptly short.  
  
Readfah gazed up into the hills. "We know their number, and that Arwen escaped. I always knew Celebrían was far more keen witted than even her own mother suspected! I just wish I knew what to do now."  
  
Although she wouldn't have expected to find her in the hills, Readfah was not too surprised to find Celebrían on the way to Lórien; for many a year she had planned her life around travel or for otherwise being away from the Wood when she knew anyone from Imladris was there. Now, it seemed, Celebrían's life might rest in Readfah's hands. Only for a moment did Readfah allow her baser thoughts to surface...let her die. I've heard the stories - Elrond turned into a recluse - Celebrían pining for Gil-galad to no good end. Let her die and join him, and then I could go home to Imladris.  
  
Her face burned with shame as soon as the thought came to her. Even were Celebrían to die, it should not be this way. 'No elf should die,' she recalled Gil-galad's words from a night long ago, just before he rode to his own death. She recalled his bright eyes gone black and empty with fear, like those of a fox when the hounds bay outside his den, and knew as she had loved him she could not let his beloved die without a fight.  
  
"We don't have long to make up our minds," Ponder said dryly, his wit, like his father's, at it's sharpest when death hovered too close. "We should move toward the river before it gets dark and draw them away from the cavern...hide the horses."  
  
"You're right. Live horses would give us away." Readfah permitted herself only a blink of time to think sadly of the dead ones they had passed on the way, horses and Elves alike. She had seen no Elf she recognized; the guardsmen were far too young to have been born when she left Imladris. It wasn't much comfort.  
  
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Arwen, afraid to run for fear of being seen, afraid to hide for fear of being sniffed out, made her way toward the Anduin slowly, conserving her strength. Still in shock over her mother's abduction, the reality of it had not set in and she was still able to think.   
  
She had been alone when the orcs came, and too frightened to do anything else, ran blindly away from the others.One or two of them had seen her, sounded the alarm and given chase, but fell dead with the last arrows to fly from Elven bows. She knew enough about them to know they avoided the Sun when they could, but the shadows were growing long.   
  
She had stopped only long enough to strip off her skirts, so that she might run unencumbered. She wasted precious minutes looking for a sword, before realizing it would do her no good against so many, and the weight of a sword would slow her as well. If I can reach the river path, I know how to reach the wood, she told herself. She kept looking over her shoulder - no sign of her captors - yet. Many times she almost weakened and stopped moving, but the thought of her mother's fate renewed the strength of her limbs.   
  
When the ground under her feet became level, she dared to stop beside an outcrop of rock and breathe. It was then she saw two horses an arrowflight away, nearly hidden even to her eyes, in the shadows of a few trees. Silently she crept closer.   
  
How Arwen missed the rank odor of the big orc she never knew, but a huge, dirty hand clapped across her mouth and muffled her scream while the other squeezed her breast, then slid the rest of the way around her, clamping her tight to his body. In the next breath she heard a thump, and she felt him pull back from her, choke, and fall like a stone with no further sound. "Shh!" a voice hissed as she drew a breath to scream. She looked around in time to see a sweep of blood colored braids straighten up before her, pulling a broad, angled blade from the dead orc's neck, and her other hand from his dying mouth.   
  
For a heartbeat's time the women stared at one another, Readfah having the advantage of Arwen, for she would have known Elrond's daughter anywhere. She is beautiful, Readfah thought. Could I ever have given him a daughter so fair? But Arwen took a step back, for Readfah, despite her elvish features, looked dangerous and wild, and Ponder, who had moved noiselessly up beside her, was no more reassuring. They urged her forward, and they moved like swift shadows toward the horses.  
  
"They are coming," he said in Laiquendi, which Arwen barely understood.   
  
"Get her home," Readfah urged.  
  
"No! You take her and I will bait them away from the cave!"  
  
The corners of Readfah's mouth turned down.   
  
"Do you think that my mother is dead?" Arwen clutched at Readfah's sleeve.  
  
"No," Readfah replied in Sindarin. "For we would be away to the Wood if I knew that for certain. But it would be better for her if she were. Ai, if only there were more of us! We are not far from Lórien, a day's ride or less. Why did they take this Béma-forsaken path?"  
  
"It might not have mattered. Our road home will be dangerous either way. There are more of them everywhere now, more than I have seen since Gil-galad died," Ponder remarked, paying no heed to the look in Arwen's eyes at the mention of that name.  
  
"They feared him like they have feared no one since," Readfah said, with grim pride. "And to this day I miss my friend sorely."  
  
Readfah helped Arwen up behind her and they were off. The younger woman had never ridden such a large beast, and she clutched at Readfah's waist almost by instinct. His daughter...Readfah thought, clenching her teeth at the touch. Their daughter... his and Celebrían's. She shook the thought from her and leaned low over Hwistlan's plunging shoulders, Arwen leaning with her.  
  
"They're coming!" hissed Ponder. "Go!"  
  
They made for the river, but suddenly Ponder wheeled away from them into a thicket, bow drawn.   
  
"Ponder!" Readfah cried.  
  
"Who goes there?" replied a clear Elvish voice.  
  
"Elrohir?" Arwen nearly slid from her seat.   
  
"No!" Readfah held her back as the horse leaped into the brush.  
  
"It is my brother, I'm sure of it!"  
  
They came out on the other side of the grove, deep in shadow now, to find a number of Elves, including Haldir and his brothers, on horseback, led by two Readfah had never seen before. As they dismounted from the dusky-coated stallions she had given Celeborn, she had her first look at Elrond's sons; tall, lithe, with dark hair pulled into tight queues in the manner of the Gondorrim archers, and Elrond's large, Moon-silver eyes. Elladan and Elrohir turned to face her as one, and their likeness to their father made her heart contract. She spared no time to greet her friends with more than a nod.  
  
"Orcs have our mother!" Arwen blurted out as she all but fell into their arms.  
  
"I knew it!" swore Elladan.  
  
"And they seek your sister!" Readfah interjected. "Quickly! If we are to save her life you must do as I tell you!"  
  
"At your service lady," he looked up to her, his curiosity quelled but not quenched, while his brother merely looked stunned.  
  
"First we must get the lady Arwen safe to the Wood. Haldir? Choose two of your best scouts and have them take the river path home. Give the lady your horse and take her place behind me. This horse could carry six of us!"  
  
Haldir nodded grimly. Arwen, after a swift embrace from her brothers, mounted Haldir's swift grey horse.  
  
"You should go with them, Readfah," Ponder said, a little line of concern knitting his brow.  
  
At the mention of her name, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen all exchanged startled glances, but Readfah did not allow them to ask questions.  
  
"No, Ponder. Celebrían will need a woman, if they have... harmed her."  
  
She spoke delicately, adjusting her quiver as she did so, but her mind was prepared for the worst. As Arwen and her escorts moved off, and Haldir leapt lightly up behind her, Readfah nodded to the brothers and urged Hwistlan forward into what fate she could not guess.  
  
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Elladan studied Readfah in silence as they rode, and despite the immediacy of his mother's danger, could not help but wonder about the strange woman who had rescued his sister.  
  
Despite her features, she was unlike the women who had surrounded him from his birth. Elf women were supple, slender creatures, their strength hidden...whereas Readfah's face was still streaked with dirt and orc blood, and looked as far from elegance as could be. Elladan was thankful to her, of course, but he was anxious to know more.   
  
She was clearly good friends with his grandmother's head border-guard, Haldir - had she lived in Lórien all this time? Her Sindarin was fluent, but accented. Her clothing was foreign altogether, like the riding tunics, boots and breeches of the Northmen, though cut to her figure and slightly longer in the hem which transformed the serviceable garment at least somewhat into feminine lines. Her hair was pulled back from her face in braids, and what was left unbraided fell shaggily to her waist.   
  
When he guessed his father's secret, long ago, he kept his thoughts to himself. But now - what had he seen in this woman? Mere physical beauty would not have captured Elrond's interest for as long as Readfah had; Even so, her father's arresting face, though softened into the curves of womanhood, was not the radiant beauty his mother had been. Yet, Elrond had never been one to judge by appearances, and the way that her companions soundlessly obeyed her was testament to their trust in her. She was wise, fair, brave, and honest. Reluctantly, Elladan had to admit that his father had not loved foolishly.  
  
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The orcs had not reckoned on Arwen's strength, for they believed she couldn't have gone far, and wasted much time peering behind rocks and up trees. The Elves heard the orkish curses, and they were not far away.  
  
"Your mother is somewhere in that cleft between those two walls. I will fetch her, and you go below and keep the vermin off," Readfah whispered, so close to Elladan's ear he could feel it. He felt sick, for he felt surely by now his mother must be dead. No elf could survive violation of that sort - he had seen that firsthand. Readfah read that in his face and shook her head.  
  
"She responded with song, when I signaled to her, and that was an hour ago. It is my thought they have not yet harmed her, for if they had, they would still be at sport, not wandering about looking for Arwen." Elladan winced at her forthright words, but he knew them to be true. "It is to our advantage that they hate and mistrust each other as much as they do us; they wouldn't dare to leave any behind to guard your mother, for they know any guards would render her useless to them before they returned. It is my belief that your mother is alone, for now."  
  
She turned her gaze to the forbidding path. "I must be swift," she said. "Go now!"  
  
The two brothers followed the sounds of an ambush echoing far below. Ponder especially hated orcs, and he slew many that day. But Readfah had the grimmer task.  
  
At length she found Celebrían where the orcs had left her, bound and naked save for the shreds of the gown she had worn, which she clutched pitifully. She regarded Readfah with mute terror, and relaxed only when she had gazed at her for several moments  
  
Readfah cut her bonds and looked around for a castoff garment to cover her, and finding none, removed her green cape. She helped Celebrían to sit up, and dressed her in it. With her small knife she cut arm holes in it, and fashioned a sash from a strip cut from the hem.  
  
"There, then. That will serve until you get home."  
  
Celebrían made no reply, nor did she rise. There was silence form the rocks below...either the orcs were all dead or everybody was. Readfah went to the mouth of the cavern and whistled, and the swift reply told her they had nothing more to fear, for now.  
  
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"We shall ride for Lórien..." began Elrohir, lifting his mother to sit before him on the big dark horse, but Readfah looked up, horrified.  
  
"No! You must take her back to Imladris! And quickly!"  
  
"Imladris! Why?"  
  
Readfah hesitated. "Only your father can heal her. Your grandparents could easily enough deal with the poison in that wound on her leg, but what they have done to her mind requires someone who has... known her."  
  
The brothers' silence and the question that provoked it burned between them. They turned their eyes to her, divining somehow that asking aloud was unnecessary.  
  
Readfah had seldom before minced words and she drew a breath. "I knew your father, lived with him, when Gil-galad was still alive, before he wed your mother. I learned much from him about healing, though I have little enough skill. After the war, Elrond healed many whose minds were attacked by the Dark One. Of Elves who had been tortured this way he always called for their mates to be present. Go now...if you love her!"  
  
Elrohir turned wordlessly from her and rode ahead. Elladan just stared at her.   
  
"One thing only I ask, son of Elrond," she said to him quietly, "and that is that you not tell your father you have seen me or even know I exist."  
  
The twist of sympathy that played around Elladan's mouth was Elrond's, so much so her heart leaped.  
  
"I will say nothing, and Elrohir shan't either."  
  
She swept him a courtesy that outgraced many he had seen in the noblest houses, and he bowed low in return. He then turned and ran to his horse, leaping astride and riding to join his mother and brother. The last Readfah ever saw of Celebrían was astride the great black horse with Elrohir, supported carefully in his arms, winding their way back into the hills going North with their windblown capes fluttering, dappling in the last Sunlight of the fading day.  
  
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Elrond knew as soon as he saw Celebrían that it was hopeless. They will blame me, he thought. They will say I didn't try hard enough. But her spirit all but cries out for release. The best thing I could do for her would be to let her die... he called servants to fetch what he needed. He could treat the wound, and at least destroy the poison in her body.  
  
Only an hour ago they had come...an hour more until dawn would break. Celebrían was put to bed in a quiet room next to the herbary, for she would need constant attention for days. His sons he had barely spoken to, for they had ridden straight from the mountains, stopping only to rest the horses. All he knew was that Arwen was safe in Lothlórien, and that some person, quite correctly, knew that the best hope for an elf whose mind had been violated was the presence of her mate. How could anyone have guessed that her true partner was awaiting her elsewhere?  
  
Elrond dressed her wound and gave her a sleeping draught, and came from the room, closing the door gently. He went out into the large hall, and smiled at his sons, who had refused beds, yet slept soundly in chairs outside the library door. He was thinking of how thankful he had been when the women who had bathed Celebrían said she had no other wound. Absentmindedly, he had picked the green cape up off the floor from where it had dropped when they undressed her, and was now surprised to see it still draped over his arm. Not much more than a rag, but he noticed that it had once been made of fine linen...a summer cape, really, the kind they made in Lothlórien, such as a rider might wear to keep the rain off.   
  
He started toward the scullery to bid a servant burn it, but then in the waxing light he saw that it was green, and Galadriel's scouts wore grey.  
  
"Some of Thranduil's messengers, perhaps...?" he mused.  
  
He shook it out and held it up to study it and his eyes riveted on a small bit of embroidery over the heart, done in bright red silk thread. A horse's head - just the suggestion of one. Had they been aided by the Éothéodias, it would have been unusual enough to mention. An Elven-cape, with the sigil of the Horse Lords...  
  
His heart began to pound. Slowly, he lifted the soiled garment to his nose and inhaled, and through the smell of horses and Celebrían, he found what he sought. Readfah...he knew her scent as well as he knew his own.   
  
"Elladan! Elrohir!" he cried, and they awoke and ran to him, thinking their mother was worse, but they stopped when they saw his eyes, and what he held.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"Where is who, Fath-?" Elrohir began.  
  
"Stop it, curse you! Where is Readfah?" The guilty look they exchanged and the ensuing silence infuriated him as it never had when the provocation was mere childhood mischief. "I will ask you once more and I want the truth! All of it!" He shook the cape at them, wild eyed. "Whence came this? I smell her on it..."  
  
Elrohir's own temper was short and fiery, but his only reply was a pained and puzzled glare. Neither he nor Elladan had ever seen him this angry.  
  
"Will neither of you speak?" he shouted.  
  
"She made us promise..." Elrohir began.  
  
"The truth at last!" muttered Elrond bitterly. "You saw her? You spoke with her?"  
  
"Yes, Father," said Elladan. "We left Lórien with over twenty scouts to ride and meet Mother, for Grandfather and Grandmother were anxious, and she was late. We were less than half a league from where we found Mother, when Readfah and her companion rode up with Arwen. Arwen told us they had saved her life. Readfah sent her to Lórien with two scouts. She knew them like brothers...she must dwell there...or near there, somewhere. I'd never seen her before. All those horses we always saw below the Celebrant must have been hers...now it makes sense."  
  
Elrond nodded. "Go on."  
  
"She bid us follow her...she insisted on going with us, though her friend objected..."  
  
"This friend," Elrond interrupted softly, his anger suddenly quenched. "Was he Mortal?"  
  
"No, an Elf of Lórien. One of Rúmil's sons, I think."  
  
"She has taken a husband then..." Elrond said softly, almost too softly even for Elvish ears.  
  
"I saw no rings," Elrohir began, but stopped at Elladan's warning look. "But I know not all the Wood Elves' customs."  
  
"Indeed," Elrond had grown chilled, and he stepped nearer the fire. I used never to feel cold, he thought. What is happening to me?  
  
It is the fading, Master Elrond, came a voice from a distant past, which had belonged to a greybeard with eyes deep as the Sea. You will not grow old as Mortals do, but you will come to an awareness that you may not abide here forever and you will begin to feel weary. He remembered Readfah's promise, that she would not leave Middle Earth until he did. His eyes closed.   
  
Find her! Find Readfah! cried the voice inside him, but he knew his duty.  
  
He looked at his sons sadly. "Go to your beds, and rest. There is nothing more to be done now, but I will do all I can for her." His last thought he kept to himself - 'and when you see what becomes of her, you will be the readier to say farewell.'  
  
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That Spring, dry-eyed and deep in thought, Elrond watched as the last of Celebrían's escort vanished over the ridge, going West. With the last of her strength, she had pleaded with her children not to ride to the Sea with her, so she might have the memory of seeing them safe at home. To Elrond she said, pressing his hand, "you have been good to me, milord. Now send me home, and at last be good to yourself." Then she turned from him and spoke no more in Middle Earth. The litter he had prepared for her rose gently from the ground in the hands of her servants, and was borne away.  
  
Glorfindel had come home the night before, and he stood beside Elrond now. "What will you do?" he asked.  
  
Elrond's eyes were full of a strange light as he turned to his friend.  
  
"I will find her."  
  
They could not know that as they spoke, war had come to the very borders of Lothlórien. All of Calenardhon was overrun, and in a matter of days the Field of Celebrant, Readfah's undisputed grazing ground for centuries, would be dark with the blood of men and orcs. They could not know that Eorl and his men had come riding from the North to join the armies of Gondor to rout the invaders. Nor did they dream that, because Readfah remembered the friendship of Gil-galad and Hulwyf and the birthing of the Mark, the Southern edge of the Wood would soon be alive with bright haired horse-warriors who would descend upon the unsuspecting enemy from the forest home of their oldest legend. 


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

Author's Notes:  
  
Once again I feel I must point out that Eorl, in this chapter, is ten years younger than JRRT said he was. I had Léod's death happen the year before Eorl leads his people into Calenardhon. This is admittedly an error, but one which I feel does not spoil the story.   
  
I also must repeat what I said in the author's notes of chapter one: this is not really AU in the sense that it alters events or history (though it gapfills in ways some purists may not like or agree with.) I have worked from LOTR and (parts of) the Silmarillion only, therefore any departure from Tolkien's other works/rules is not a deliberate breach. Maybe someday I will go back and realign the story to fit ALL of Tolkien canon, or explain at greater length why there are exceptions, but not yet, as I just haven't got the time to read all those books.  
  
A reviewer brought up the question of Readfah's immortality, and though justified, I can't answer that yet because Readfah herself is not sure why she is still alive. Her theory is that she remained alive long enough to become aware of having the same choice Elrond and his brother were offered, and became Elven-kind when she and Elrond became lovers. This does not stop her, however, from making other choices that will seem inconsistent with that. All I can say is that this hovering question is part of the story of Readfah, not a mistake or omission on my part.  
  
And, no, despite the derring-do of the last chapter and the understandable confusion among many generations of the Horsemen about her nature, she is not a Mary Sue. She is neither a man (or elf) magnet, has many weaknesses, is not particularly beautiful, and has not nor will she sleep with Legolas!  
  
She is, however, the daughter of Maedhros, in itself a legacy of strength, and that she is also the daughter of a Rohirric ancestor merely focused that strength on the knowledge and love of that noblest of beasts, the horse. She certainly had time to realize near-perfection at her craft, so what might be construed as MarySueish in a mortal is actually more believable when you remember that she is nearly Elrond's age, a granddaughter of Fëanor, and forced to resourcefulness by her self-imposed exile among the people of Forochel. If she *wasn't* gifted, I'd be worried!  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-Two  
  
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Eorl, mounted upon Felaróf, had brought his warriors over miles unnumbered to answer the summons of Cirion. It was cold for an April day, but his men and horses were well clothed and fed. As he rode, he thought over what had happened in these past weeks, and was convinced his decision was sound, and moreover, right. If many of his people had their doubts of him because of his youth, they were laid to rest now. Cirion had sworn brotherhood to the Mark when Eorl was a boy, and he never forgot it.  
  
Over seven thousand riders in companies of a hundred and twenty each they came, spearmen all girt with swords and daggers, companies of archers, mail and helms agleam, with blood in their eyes and the lust of battle in their hearts. Perhaps fiercest of all were the shieldmaidens. Traditionally an independent troop, they willingly subjected themselves to Eorl's command.  
  
Their helms were fashioned so as to disguise their beardlessness, and in every way but the breadth of their bodies they were indistinguishable from their brothers. They were not many - they never had been - but they were feared, for the women of the Mark were swift, keen, and merciless to their enemies. Eorl's faith in them was implicit, and theirs in him, for his own mother led an éored in her youth, and she still kept the shield that had belonged to her great-grandmother, the last of a time when the women still decorated their shields with the scalps of their foes.  
  
But now they came near to the eaves of Lothlórien, and his leadership was put to the test. Seldom had anyone in living memory, save Léod, come this close to the Wood, and remembering his fate many of the men hesitated to ride closer, especially now as evenfall drew near. "Dwimordene," they murmured, and looked at Eorl, wondering if he really meant to lead them so close to that place. Even though the river lay between them, it was narrow where it flowed past the Wood, and their path would take them almost to it's edge. It was doubtful if they feared it much less than Dol Guldur, which loomed on the Eastern horizon, swirling with black clouds and the smell of evil.  
  
There was something different about the young chieftain since he came home riding the white horse with no harness or headstall, guiding him with but a word. Stout of heart and strong of arm they might be, but half-remembered stories and the fear of things unconquerable by strength and mettle began to haunt them. Only Donnic, faithful Donnic, who had refused to remain at home despite his age, rode forward confidently with his young master and felt no fear.  
  
"She lives there, I am sure of it," he spoke quietly, recalling the day, less than a year ago, that he had followed Léod down the path beside the Anduin. Hægir, who rode beside him, smiled and said nothing, but even he - who had seen Readfah and Ponder with his own eyes and knew that those two, at least, bore them no ill will - even he was uneasy as the Wood grew into more than just a shimmer in the distance.   
  
On Eorl's right rode Cirion's emissary Borondir, and whatever he thought of the Wood, or Elves, he kept his peace. He also kept silent his wonder at Eorl's youth. The lad had become a man overnight, and his headstrong and impetuous nature, if not erased, was at least in check. Borondir himself was the grandson of a Northman who had gone into the service of Gondor, and he had not been surprised at their willingness to fight. But how, he wondered, does the young one propose to ride in the open against so many? His eyes strayed to the forbidden Wood, a haze of pale gold in the rolling green leagues around it.   
  
Now they had passed the place where, stopping to rest the horses and adjust their harness on their way to the North, Borondir's companion fell with an arrow to the heart. Borondir had only time to leap to his horse's back and ride with the very breath of Dol Guldur on his neck. Thanks to his fleet and tireless horse he had escaped unscathed. He was the only one of six of Cirion's men to reach Framsburg alive.  
  
They called him "Udalraph" as he rode into the town - "stirrupless" - for having no time to secure his stirrups properly back on the saddle they had been lost in the flight. Never dreaming of the importance of this lone and bedraggled rider, they brought him to Eorl, and to their wonder Eorl had welcomed him as he might have a lost friend. Hearing his story, and receiving Cirion's seal carved on a stone disc, he at once set about mustering his riders. "For," as he said, "not only are we as brothers, but where would we flee if Mundburg should fall?" The muster took a week, but when they learned of Borondir's ride, men came eagerly from every Éothéodian hamlet and farm until the number exceeded Eorl's expectations.  
  
And now they camped unmolested in the meadows across from Lothlórien, unseen, so they thought, by any who might dwell there. Though they might have whispered among themselves in the dusk, they were of the Mark and treachery was not in them. They would take their chances, whatever might happen, at dawn.  
  
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As the Sun set below Caras Galadhon, the Galadrim looked on in wonder as two women walked the treelined paths and talked together as if no enmity had ever lay between them. Readfah and Galadriel had at last achieved a truce. It was said the Lady had finally buried her dislike of Readfah when it was learned how she had helped lead Elladan and Elrohir to the orc-dens, and how she had saved Arwen's life. Saddened by Celebrían's departure as she was, Galadriel was nonetheless relieved that her daughter was at last at peace. Secretly, she wondered why Readfah did not go back to Imladris, even though such a thing was against Noldorin custom. She did not question her on this matter. There were more pressing issues right outside their own boundaries.   
  
Celeborn came to Readfah ask her to come back to the city with him.   
  
"I have always loved my Lady, though I have not always agreed with the things she has chosen to do. When we lost...when Celebrían left us, it was as if she at last saw the fruit of all her ambition. Readfah, Galadriel may never take ship into the West. For her part in the rebellion she must remain here all her days until she is but a shadow. She cannot die. She knows she has wronged you. Come with me, and allow her at least to tell you so herself."  
  
Upon hearing this, and seeing the deep regret in his fine grey eyes, Readfah's well-justified anger at long last cooled and she rode to Caras Galadhon with him. Though she still loved Elrond, something in her heart that she could not name kept her from going back to Imladris. "It is almost as if I know my destiny lies elsewhere," she once told Haldir and Ponder, "But what it is I cannot tell." Her desire for children had never left her, and she thought more and more of the Mortals she loved but had never lived with for long.  
  
"The Éothéodias are camped scarcely a league and a half to the North tonight," she told Galadriel. "And to the South, from my own talan, I can hear the screeches of orcs and strange-tongued Men. They are still on the East bank of the river, but I think soon that will change. The Men of Gondor are hard pressed, and have sent for help out of the North." Here she smiled wanly. "I told one of them last summer I would see them again soon. I thought I would be doing the visiting."  
  
"The borders are still protected," Galadriel said. "But too few of us remain to present any kind of make-weight against so vast an enemy. It has been long since Elves and Men were truly allied. Yet I wish to help them if we cannot join them."  
  
"Where has milord Celeborn gone?"  
  
"To spy on the enemy." Galadriel permitted herself a small smile. "He will always be a soldier at heart. It surprises me that you didn't accompany him. Ponder did."  
  
"I thought to ride out to Eorl and his army, to offer such aid as we could, but he told me when we met that many of them now fear Elves."  
  
"They should not fear you, at any rate! We shall just have to bide, and see to their needs as we perceive them. I hardly think they will ride right into the Wood, in spite of what you tell me of the young chief's boldness! Yet no scout will raise a bow against them should they do so, and we shall watch as we always do, and tend to any who are wounded."  
  
"But, unless they do come into the Wood, or travel by night, they will be open targets."  
  
"Bide, Readfah! At dawn you will see Nenya at work."  
  
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Eorl and his men woke to see a pearl-white mist rolling from the heart of Lothlórien and settling over the river where they must pass. They would be hidden now, and feverishly they broke camp to ride ere the Sun rose and burned it away. But it was a chill day, and there should have not been such a fog, and if there had, it should have risen from the river, not from the forest.  
  
And even as the Sun rose, the mist did not clear, but instead boiled higher and thicker. And Eorl's army murmured thankfully now, though not a one of them would have ventured willingly into that Wood, they looked upon it now with friendlier eyes.  
  
"We ride, maybe die today!" Eorl called out to his warriors. "Let not our brothers of Gondor who have died before us die in vain! Show no mercy! Take none prisoner! Hunt them until none are left!"  
  
Spears clashed on shields, and were shaken aloft, a great cry rose behind the mist, and those who heard it beyond the river shuddered at the sound.  
  
Then, as one body, the Riders rode forth, across from the river path beside the great Wood they named Dwimordene. And though a few swore later that they saw eyes far above them in the trees, they did not hesitate.   
  
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Half of Eorl's riders crossed the river and broke into the clearing below Celebrant within sight of Readfah's talan,* while the rest, led by Borondir, rode to the Undeeps and forded there, in order to form a surrounding flank. The white mist hung heavy well past midday, and when it rose, even Cirion's army was amazed at the sight that met their eyes.  
  
For suddenly the field, from North and East, was alive with horses and riders, riders who threw their heads back and laughed and even sang as their swords swept the heads off the enemy's rear guard, who had their backs to the borders of the elf-wood but dared not retreat therein. Horrified cries of fear and despair arose, as the Balchoth host fled, and the orcs who had hidden in the mountains to ambush Cirion's army found themselves beset.  
  
"Take them!" roared Eorl, Felaróf surging forth beneath him like a pale thunderhead and leading the army in a sweep of the great field of Celebrant. The Balchoth, once more than a match for the Gondorrim, broke and scattered, weeping, begging for their lives as they were cut down. Heads rolled, blood fountained up from the twitching bodies and slicked the grass, but the horses heeded none of it and bore down on the fleeing, screaming remnant of the enemies of Gondor, rearing and crushing skulls with ironshod hoofs, pulling sinew from limbs with snapping teeth. And some, pursued by the shieldmaidens' éored, took their own lives rather than face them.  
  
After the first shock, the Balchoth attempted to rally themselves by attacking the horses, and for a brief time Eorl despaired. But then, he saw riderless horses coming from the direction of the Wood, of their own free wills so it seemed. His unhorsed riders found these animals ready and willing to bear them. And his wounded, few as they were, seemed to melt into the grass. He looked toward the tall mallorns, not a league from where he had stopped, and knew from whence his help had come. In truth, though Dwimordene seemed less forbidding than it once had, still - he hoped the Elves would somehow sense his gratitude without necessitating his entry into the dim and uncanny corridors of that place.  
  
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Across Calenardhon they pursued the enemy until none remained alive. Even the men of Gondor, staunch warriors as they were, were shaken by the ferocity of the Northmen. Many days later they returned, and rode past Cirion's army, who fell silent when they saw the bloody handprints dotting the horses' coats like badges, one, it was said, for each kill, and as often as not it was the black blood of orcs forming the hideous decoration. And they looked with wonder upon the laughing women, helms cast aside, their fair faces painted also with blood.   
  
"These are accounted lesser Men by the sons of Numenor," they murmured, "Yet they have given us our very lives!"  
  
No one noticed the hooded figure on the gold and white horse, riding quietly at the outskirts of the gathering where Eorl and Cirion had met, embracing like father and son. And when they at last departed for the evening, and the Éothéodias made camp near a grove of trees, Eorl saw his old horse standing in the long shadows a short distance away, and knew who it was beside him.  
  
"Readfah?" he called softly, for he guessed correctly that she did not wish to be conspicuous.  
  
"Yes," she stepped from the shadows.   
  
"It is good to see you," he faltered, taking her hands, and searching her eyes, which were deep wells of sorrow.  
  
There was a long silence. "I have buried Donnic," she said at last.  
  
"Béma!" Eorl cried, still softly, and tears started in his eyes. "What happened?"  
  
"He had a sword wound, and lost too much blood...the healers could do nothing save ease his pain. He didn't suffer much, and he asked me to bury him."  
  
"Where have you laid him?"  
  
"He lies on the edge of Dwimordene, near my house. He was in my arms when he...went to sleep. I think he was happy."  
  
Readfah dried her tears after a long time, and spoke again.  
  
"Your wounded have been tended, and will return tomorrow. Your dead will suffer no disrespect. They lie in the foothills beside the Wood. No orc shall pass there again alive."  
  
He managed a slight smile..."the horses..."  
  
"Yours? They lie buried honorably. The others?" She shrugged. "I have many."  
  
Another long and awkward silence. Eorl spoke first this time. "I shall never forget this day, even when I am old."  
  
Readfah grinned and patted his face, which she noticed had begun sprouting a beard. "You will never grow old!"  
  
"Madam, say not so! Is this an omen that I shall die in my youth?" His voice was shocked but his eyes were merry. "Or you have used some sorcery to change me to one of the Deathless?"  
  
"Béma forbid either! Nay, I mean only that you will never look old. When you are a grandfather you will still be the wicked youth you are now!"  
  
He smiled, and even in the dusk she was reminded of all his ancestors that she had known. They grew quiet again, and she turned from him and sprang to Hwistlan's back noiselessly.   
  
"Will you return home now?" she asked.  
  
"Not right away. Milord Steward has asked that we remain, and meet with him again after a time."  
  
She thought on that for a moment, then looked back at him. "I will return soon," she said.  
  
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Elrond had vowed to find Readfah, but to his dismay he was thwarted again and again by circumstances outside his own doors. Things were dangerous...Gandalf had thrice visited, and the Wizard known as Saruman, who for no sane reason made the back of Elrond's neck prickle with distrust, was assuring them of their safety. His sons and Glorfindel had departed to join Celeborn not two days before Eorl's mighty deliverance of Gondor, and he himself, as a ringbearer, dared not leave Imladris unprotected without the knowledge of the others.  
  
At last Taenon, whom Elrond knew had been longing to take ship West for many years, offered to ride to Lothlórien to ask Readfah to come home. Gratefully, Elrond agreed to allow him to go, and for a short time his heart was high with hope.  
  
But in due time Taenon and his companions sadly returned. They had not seen her. And the last anyone had seen of her, she and most of the horses were away with the Northmen who had gone to war for the sake of the Steward of Gondor. Where they had gone was unknown as well. Her few possessions were gone from her house, where the son of Rúmil now lived alone. No, they had not wed. But it looked as though Readfah had at last chosen for herself another life, and it seemed to Elrond that he had lost her a second time.  
  
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*It has been written that the host of Eorl crossed Anduin at the Undeeps, about 100 miles from the Southeasternmost corner of Lothlórien. I have had some of them ford the river nearer the Wood (shallow enough place is my creation!), and sent the rest South to form two flanks with which to more efficiently crush the enemy. It makes better military sense than to have 7000 horses trying to ford the river in one spot for a surprise attack and it's what I believe he would have done. 


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

Author's Notes:  
  
We are back! I have been pretty sick, off and on, and job seeking (and finding) has occupied most of my time these days. Readfah has been busy, as you will see. Do join us and stay tuned!   
  
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Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-three  
  
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One summer day Readfah and Ponder sat quietly in a tree overlooking the Anduin and watched as yet another detachment of Eorl's people came down the river path seeking camp on the way to their new home. They had been passing that way for weeks - the Elves complained, merrily, that the paths would never look the same again - and still they came. The Northmen had prospered and increased over the years, and Readfah could not help but be happy as she watched them pass.  
  
At the foot of the tree stood Faran*, her new bond-mare, a large yet speedy blue roan daughter of the Eärroch. In body she reminded Readfah of Felaróf, but in spirit, she was much like her beloved Wimowë, as witnessed by her insistence on remaining by the tree instead of seeking grass even when Readfah indicated she might do so. The many horses that passed sparked the mare's interest not at all, though Readfah was gratified to see that they too had done well.  
  
Readfah had ridden with Eorl and his warriors to meet with Cirion, who granted them the entire section of land from the Limlight all the way to the River Isen, for their own if they would have it. No better land was to be found for horses in all of Middle-Earth, and they accepted their new home thankfully. Readfah remembered how so very different - and difficult - it had been between the two races of Men in the days of the Alliance.  
  
"Cirion gave them Calenardhon....all of it!" she had reported breathlessly upon her return from the amazing meeting between the two leaders, whereat an even stronger alliance had been made. She sat ahorse along with the shieldmaids and soldiers, quiet and hooded, and watched the two noble and kingly men embrace as brothers and swear an oath that might endure test but would never be broken.  
  
But Ponder was saddened, for Readfah had soon announced her plan to leave the Wood and take up residence in the new Riddermark, that the Gondorrim called "Rohan." Eorl and his family were even now awaiting her, resting mere yards from her own talan, and paying their respects at Donnic's cairn.   
  
"Cheer up, my friend! I will be but two days ride away! It will be once again like it was when Gil-galad lived, and the Northmen were our allies and close at hand."  
  
"Readfah, is that wise?" Ponder spoke aloud the fear they all had when she first told them her plans. Some of Eorl's kinsmen were rebuilding for her the remains of a cottage she and Ponder had once discovered on the border of Fangorn, near the Entwash."The Onodrim...there is rumor of their changing...even we must be on our guard."  
  
"I shall not disturb the dear treelings....but you know that I must leave," she reminded him quietly. Though her heart was wrenched when she learned that Taenon had come during her absence to ask her to come back to Imladris, she knew that Elrond himself, in spite of the danger, might make the journey next. "And when I take a husband, he will be of the Rohirrim," she said, using the name she had heard among Cirion's men.  
  
Ponder's lip twitched...noticing that she used for the first time the word 'when' instead of 'if.'  
  
"Does anyone take your eye, then?" he smiled.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
"I thought the young one..."  
  
"Oh, no!" Readfah shook her head vigorously. "Even were I so inclined, he is plighted to another. And he is royalty now, don't forget!" she added piously.  
  
"And you are not?" Ponder leaned back on the tree-bole, smiling.  
  
"What is it like, Readfah?" he said after an awkward pause, moving smoothly as the shadow of a cat and curling up beside her.  
  
"What is what like?"  
  
"Being Peredhel," his eyes, half-lidded, mocked her gently. "There are times when you seem just like us, and others when you seem more child of the Mark than the young one himself."  
  
"After all this time you ask that?" she blinked, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. Ponder shrugged. Time meant little to him.  
  
"Because, when next I see you, you may be wife to a Mortal man...with a belly out to here," he teased, extending his hands as far beyond his own flat belly as he could reach. "He will die some day, you know. And so will the children.Will you follow them?"  
  
The bantering tone was gone, and Ponder's voice betrayed but a hint of a break.  
  
"I never thought about..."  
  
"Liar," he said, bluntly, but without anger. "You have the Choice, have you not? As Elrond and his brother had? You have thought about it, and often, I daresay. I would."  
  
"I suppose I do. But I have already lived so long..."  
  
"What I fear, Readfah, is that your love for whatever husband you choose will sever you from us..."   
  
"You have Isiel," she reminded him. "And your son. I have no one."  
  
"You have Elrond."   
  
"An arrow in the dark! Maybe! Or maybe Gil-galad and I will have forever to watch as the Valar force Celebrían on Elrond a second time! Who really knows what it's like there? 'You may do this, you are forbidden that...you are held to a vow you never wished to take...' "  
  
"Galadriel..." Ponder began, but Readfah fixed him with a stare.  
  
"And she left as soon as she could! Now she may never go there again! She who is as a Queen...while the lowliest Mortal may go where he will, as easily as falling asleep..." she sighed as she remembered Ux, clasping her hand as he bid her his last goodbye. An old man by then, but as cheerful and unafraid on the very day of his death as he had ever been in life. On the other hand, the departure of Elves going West seemed always a time of unutterable melancholy.  
  
"They do not see it as such a gift," Ponder murmured.  
  
"The Rohirrim do. Or more so than other Men, at any rate. They have little fear of death, and tell many stories of the tables at which their fathers sit feasting in Béma's very halls. Why not indeed sleep for a time and wake in Béma's house, rather than take a rocking, quease-making ship to an island where we may not even be free?"  
  
Ponder gazed at her for a moment in silence. "I have never heard you talk this way," he said at last.  
  
"Perhaps I have never before really thought about it. Being able to choose, that is. It hardly seems fair to those without such a choice, you know. Being governed by your natures instead of your hearts." Here she paused, and seemed to dream for a bit. Presently she said, " I'm going to live among them for a long while, Pon', perhaps forever. I truly do not know which path I will take in the end. I do not know why I, of all people, should be granted a Choice, or even why I was granted the life of the Eldar at all. I am not a person of any importance. I am illegitimate. My father was a rebel and my mother, though a medicine woman, was hardly known outside her clan. But it seems to me I should have died ages ago, if I was going to."  
  
Without waiting for a reply, Readfah slid from her perch and onto Faran's back. Ponder watched her ride away and spoke no word to stay her.  
  
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The White Council, as the gathering of the Wise was called, had formed years ago when some unseen force had moved them to do so. The Ringbearers had all felt it. It was as if the thought had been planted in all their hearts that the One Ring had somehow been disturbed from it's watery grave and was once again being used.**  
  
It was the first time they met in Imladris, at Saruman's request.Gandalf had merely touched Elrond's sleeve as they stood at the entrance and watched as Galadriel's horse was led away, and Elrond responded with a grimace. It was easier, now, than the first meeting when he had all he could do to be civil, but the resentment still showed or Mithrandir might not have been moved to remind him of his manners! In silence he escorted Galadriel into the Hall where the others of the Council waited.  
  
In an open door near the herbary stood a figure so like to Gandalf they might have been brothers, save that he was cloaked in the soft brown of a hickory shale. Birds flew near and perched on his shoulders fearlessly...even kinds which were enemies in the forest forgot their quarrels in his presence. Radagast rarely spoke, for his love and care was for the lesser - if they might be called so - creatures of Middle Earth. An unwise observer might have scoffed, and considered the gentle Radagast to be a lesser brother himself in this company, but for all his silence he was greatly respected, for his sharp senses were alert as a deer's and as discerning as those of a fox.  
  
Two others of the Wise, Alatar and Pallando, had come and gone a fortnight ago, and did not join the Council. Their mission was to the East, and of the blue-robed companions never another word was heard. Not one member of the Council knew if their quest succeeded, but it was guessed whatever they accomplished had been at the cost of their lives.  
  
Saruman, robed in pure white, arrived shortly before dusk. He wasted little time, insisting that they hold Council while dinner was still being served. Between courses he told of Sauron's latest capture of yet another of the Seven Dwarvish rings, leaving only one free, and urged that the Three be even more closely guarded.Then he surprised everyone by adding:  
  
"Anyone, Man, Elf, or otherwise, who is even aware that the Rings exist, should be brought here," he said, his black eyes piercing Elrond's, which had been reflecting only the candlelight. But Gandalf, who had been watching Elrond also, detected a different, deeper light beginning to glow, and sighed inaudibly, his own eyes narrowing.   
  
Very little else was debated that night, and further talk was postponed until the morrow. Long after the rest of the Council members had been shown to their apartments for the night, Elrond stood out on the terrace lost in thought, gazing at the network of stars over the valley.   
  
"I know what you are thinking, and you must not do it," Gandalf's voice. pitched low, came from the shadows behind him.  
  
Elrond did not waste breath arguing that Gandalf was wrong in his guesswork. "Why not? You heard what Curunir has said."  
  
"Never before have you agreed with all he has said," Gandalf now stood beside him, but Elrond did not meet his eyes nor did he move. "You just want her back."  
  
"Of course I do."  
  
"He is right in one way...all who have touched the Rings are forever changed by them, each in their own way. Círdan...of all Elves he is beginning to show age like a Mortal, for Narya could not consume his spirit so instead turned to his body. Gil-galad forsook the Sapphire to keep Imladris safe, and I deem he would live yet had he kept it, for if the stories are true, for him t'was like armor."  
  
"At what cost would Vilya have left Imladris, Mithrandir?" Elrond asked softly, the mention of his friend making his eyes sting.  
  
Gandalf shrugged."I know not. And Readfah...who can say what the touch of Vilya has done to her?"  
  
Prompted by Elrond's continued silence, Gandalf stepped closer and lowered his voice even further. "She is safest among her mother's kin. We....wizards...are not without flaw, Master Elrond. Sometimes it is those who are granted the greatest power who are flawed the most." He glanced significantly toward the stairs. "She is in Rohan. Allow her the peace to do what she must do to be fulfilled...I think when all has been said, that you wish her happiness above all. The Men of Rohan are like their forefathers of the Mark...stout and worthy Men withal, and Readfah is, I think, the gift of the Valar to them. Let her bear children among them if she may, so that her Elvish blood might be the blessing to them as that of your line was to the sons of Numenór."  
  
Elrond still did not speak, but his heart, though sore, was touched, and at last he nodded. At length he moved toward the stairs, and Gandalf too went up into the candlelit passageway to the rooms prepared for him.  
  
Several moments passed, and there came from behind the hangings near where Elrond and Gandalf had been standing a soft sigh. A tall, white-robed figure stepped forth, gazing thoughtfully at the receding shadows at the top of the stairs, and shook his head. "Olorin...." he said almost regretfully, pulling his robes closer against the night chill. Saruman was still not accustomed to the constraints of such a body and it annoyed him. There was little about Middle Earth and its inhabitants that did -not- annoy him. He could scarcely remember why he had agreed to come here, though at the back of it all was the sense of power and more power. He paid little heed to it, though, save for the satisfaction he took in surprising everyone when he knew more than they thought he did.  
  
"Rohan...." he mused aloud. Someone who had handled the Sapphire lived in the newborn land of Rohan. He had not heard the whole exchange word for word, but he correctly guessed it was that woman Elrond had loved long ago. Such things were ordinarily of no interest to him. The Rohirrim themselves were to him an insignificant lot, save for the fine horses they bred. Still, what his grey-clad colleague had said was true in reverse as well: often those with the least power may prove to be the best - and safest - allies.   
  
"Rohan...." he said again. Perhaps, in time, the land of the Horse-Lords would prove a good place to lay hold of still more power, and, unseen and unsuspected, begin to build a means to at last unseat Sauron...  
  
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The gaiety of the Rohirrim as they rode across the windswept grasslands to their new home was infectious. And to while the hours Readfah taught them entire songs of their fathers of which they had only remembered fragments, and stories likewise, so that her company was in much demand around the night fires. It was almost with regret that they reached the spot that Eorl had chosen for his capital.  
  
Edoras, they named the place, and called it a city though it was little more than a cluster of tents scattered beneath a snowcapped mountain. Readfah thought of Imladris in its infancy and smiled. She watched men hewing long beams for a sort of building that would be large enough for horsedrawn wains to be driven into and unloaded, and later would serve as a sheltered marketplace. She marveled at how quickly they worked. She helped women build hen-coops and dairy byres of stone, watched the smallest children while their mothers planned gardens and planted late vegetables. She churned butter and made great wheels of cheese, which they stored to ripen in small, cool caves they discovered in the hills. She rode with the herdsmen and with them marveled at the quality of the grasses on the endless prairie rolling beyond the hills surrounding the blossoming town. The land was perfection.  
  
Eorl's betrothed, Berengitte, a very pretty girl who reminded Readfah of Celebrían in her youth - all eyes and pale, shimmering hair - arrived a fortnight after the first tents went up, and there was a grand wedding feast on the open plains. It was fitting, thought Readfah, that they should wed thus, as their ancestors did when she was a child, surrounded by naught but the waving gold-green grasses, their wealth in horses, and the people they loved. It was a simple wedding for a King and his Queen, but one of the loveliest she had ever witnessed.  
  
Autumn came, then the snows, and Readfah was persuaded to remain until Spring, and finally until the Queen gave birth to a son, named Brego, in mid June. Eorl, only half reconciled to her departure, rode with her for several miles, followed at a distance by two of his warriors and the two young couples who had received the honor of becoming Readfah's householders. A pair of cottages had been built a quarter hour's ride from hers, and their other animals - cattle, sheep, goats and pigs - had already been taken ahead for them.  
  
"After all, why should you go at all, Readfah?" Eorl argued cheerfully. "It is time that you chose a husband, and not many men will come your way if you insist on removing so far from us!"  
  
He was teasing her of course, but Readfah allowed that he was right. Not a few young men, discovering she was not wed, had already intimated that they would not be averse to courting her. And though she made no serious response, she had allowed herself to enjoy the attention.  
  
"I will spend much time in Edoras, young sir," she said lightly. "But I do wish to have my home close to my other kinsmen as well."  
  
Eorl was silent, but he was thinking about Lothlórien, and how it's mysterious aether had affected them during the Battle of Celebrant. Readfah herself was so familiar a friend now it seemed difficult to reconcile the very Rohirric woman he saw before him with the gifted elf-woman he also knew her to be. He surprised her, then, by posing the very same question Ponder had but in different words.  
  
"Readfah....have you hesitated to wed among my people for fear you will die?"  
  
She sighed and shook her head. "I do not fear death," she said, "but the greater pain of uncertainty. Men know their fate, and so do Elves. I do not."  
  
He looked at her with pity then...of all emotions the last Readfah would have ever thought a Mortal would feel for her, and it seemed that a cloud passed overhead. They stopped, preparatory to his turning back.  
  
"I will come to Edoras so often you will beg to be quit of me!" she grinned, and the cloud disappeared.  
  
Eorl threw back his head and laughed his marvelous laugh until the hills rang and Felaróf danced beneath him. "Never!" Then, more quietly, he added, "Béma has given me a great gift in the Kingship of my people, but an even greater one in allowing me to be Readfah's friend."  
  
.  
  
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The silver light of a full Moon and the banked embers of a fire were all that kept darkness from Readfah's cottage one night a few weeks after she came to live there. She had been sleeping soundly, until a footfall, then two, woke her. Her fingers closed slowly around the new handle of the angled blade that had never been out of her sight or reach since she was a child. She sat up slowly, her eyes flicking through the darkness. She held her breath. None of the horses had made a sound.   
  
Her bare feet had scarcely touched the flagstones when her heart leapt at the sight of a tall figure with it's back to her, bent slightly to the fire, and casting a wavering, almost transparent shadow on the floor and walls. It seemed to be trying to warm itself, though the night was mild. Then it turned suddenly to her.  
  
Though she nearly swooned, she saw in less than a heartbeat the slender curve of an Elvish ear in the dim light. He was strangely dressed...yet Readfah remembered garments like his if only dimly. Her breath grew rapid and she gripped the knife handle more tightly. His face was in shadow. He stretched a hand toward her as if he would approach her, but he saw the knife and stopped. He did not retreat.  
  
Then he spoke...  
  
In a halting voice with accents long forgotten, he said, "I have given much and fought much to see you." There was a long pause. "I have not long to speak with you. Do not raise my own weapon against me....daughter."  
  
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* OE/Rohirric v. = "Go" suggesting speed.  
  
** This would be the approximate time of Sméagol's fateful Birthday. In the Appendix it is not stated that the White Council was formed AFTER the One was found, but it seemed to make sense for it to happen this way, given the symbiotic relationship of all the Rings. It mentions a couple of times that "The Istari and Chief Eldar" became aware of this or that movement of their enemy over the centuries, but tells of no meetings, so to me, the formation of a Council seems to suggest the first of such. The meeting I describe in Imladris is my own invention, but a plausible one, I think. 


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

Author's notes:  
It has been a long delay, but I hope my old friends will be happy to know that the story of Readfah will continue. I hope, too, that we make some new friends as well.  
I will be making some corrections and tweaks as the story continues, so you may want to check authors' notes and footnotes from time to time.  
Enjoy!

Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-four

Many more years of Men passed before Readfah could remember the vision - if vision it had been - of her father without grief. She had felt the warmth of his embrace, heard his voice, even smelled the evergreen scent of his clothes. Though scarcely more than a dozen sentences had passed between them, she felt his regret for his earlier attempts to reach her spirit, which had ended only in an invasion of it. Only when he forsook his anger, he said, could he hope to reach her as he had longed to.

"I have no wise words for you, for I have been far from wise," he said. "I have not come of a purpose, or to say aught but that I love you and that I wish I could have been more to you."

"Ada, no, please don't say that! I always felt that maybe if I had been a better daughter..."

"Ah, Readfah! There was no one I loved more save your mother! You know now the doom my father made for all his sons, but that is finished now. There is only one thing I could ask more of you, and that is to someday wed...have children."

Her surprise must have showed, for he allowed himself to smile briefly.

"Be happy, daughter! I know you have been long in grief over Earendil's son, but I beg you set that aside. No match we make with a mortal can be forever, but while it lasts you may know happiness."

He embraced and kissed her again and was gone from her so swiftly that he might have been a bird paused on a bough on it's way to some warmer clime. His words had indeed been few, but he spoke of her children, as if they had already been born.

"As I loved your sweet mother, you may know happiness for a while," he said gently as he faded from her sight.

All the questions she had wanted to ask suddenly seemed unimportant. She whispered "Béma be with you" to his passing shadow, then went back to her bed, suddenly weak, and unable even to weep.

---------------------------

Two score and four years later, the news came that there had been raids on some of the villages between her pastures and Edoras, with cottages burned and horses stolen. Her householders and herdsmen, who had been barely men when they came with their wives to the Wold, were now grandfathers, with sons and grandsons preparing to do battle.

Eorl himself rode up to her door just past sunrise - a grandfather now, too, but with scarcely a line on his face or a silver strand of hair to show for it - shouting with laughter and joking that they had not made an end of the Easterlings at last when he had been but six-and-twenty, and the whole business would be to do again. He begged her not to make a fuss, as the men had breakfasted at daybreak, but asked leave to make camp for a day or two before riding on, and perhaps allow some of her horses to choose new masters.

"You need never ask, my good King," Readfah replied with a formal bow, then they suddenly both laughed and hugged each other warmly.

"As usual your horses are unmatched. It has been much too long since you have come to Edoras," he complained. "Nearly two years now! I know that to you Deathless ones that seems like a fortnight, but..."

"Sh..." she frowned, for some of the younger esquires looked a little uncomfortable at those words. "I took a good number of my horses up to Donnicscairn when the troubles started," she said, for this was how she now referred to the pasture lying just below the eaves of Lothlórien. "The horses know they may escape into the Wood unharmed. I am safe enough here, for the enemies fear to approach Fangorn as well, but I thought it best not to have them all together. While I was there I had to visit some of my friends for a time. And I see your trusty horse is still with you!" And indeed Felarof was still his inseparable friend, as full of youth and spirit as his master, pawing the ground as if spoiling to be away. She patted him; he snorted softly and nuzzled her cheek.

Brego came riding up a little later with more men. Readfah recalled his distaste for war. As a child he had preferred building large and improbable cities from blocks of painted wood to battle games. When the troubles began he had been drawing plans and gathering the materials and laborers to erect in the heart of Edoras a magnificent Hall for his father and mother.

"But now, it seems that shall have to wait," he said ruefully as they sat about her table that night while the men camped in the pastures. Readfah had bidden two fat bullocks slaughtered that morning in spite of the season, and they were roasting nicely outside.

Eorl glanced up at her from over a tankard of ale. "It seems I am to be built a palace, Readfah! Though I would as lief sleep in a tent like any warrior." He took another long draught, and he had a faraway look for a moment, as if remembering his youth. "Tonight would be a good one for stories, eh?"

Readfah had gone to the door, and the smell of roasting beef filled the cottage. Over her shoulder she smiled, and said "Very well then. I once knew a fellow named Ux."

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And then suddenly they had come riding in the night with voices of grief. Eorl, with his beloved horse Felarof, had been slain less than two leagues from her door, though the battle had turned to their favor and in time was won. His men carried them all the way to Edoras, and they were laid together in a mound before the gates. Readfah rode with them, wrapped in long memory, and she began to sing - her voice roughened with tears.

"Hwiderse eoh und se cnihtrid'e? Hwiderse hornung blauwungen?  
Hwiderse helm und herpad'e, und bre'danice beorht flowungen?  
Hwiderse folme on se hearpestrunge, und se breaneread scinungen?  
Hwiderse lencten und se ge-gaðerian-hwil, und se cornmæst aweaxeungen?  
Man geardag'e gelic'rinan on se beorghliþ, gelic'aerfleog'e on se medolæs

Se dagas ferandun metse Sonnenrest, beæft'e beorgen sceadues

Hwa gaðere' se breanege-nip of se beamesdead byrnan

Oþþe behealde se geares flowungen feorra brim geciernan?"¹

The soldiers listened in silence, then took up the song after she had repeated it. Thus they came to Edoras to lay Eorl the Young to rest.

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When Readfah left Imladris so long ago, she had taken with her some of the white flowers that covered the grave of Wimowe, pressed from the root. Now she planted their descendants on Eorl's grave. Over the years they spread their snowy stars over the mounds of all the kings of Rohan. Other than a tiny patch of them behind her cottage and an odd one here and there in the prairies, they never grew anywhere else.

Still more time passed, with it's joys and griefs. Readfah wept with Brego when his son Baldor was lost on the paths of the Dead, and when Brego died a year later, saw him buried beside his father. She enjoyed the long reign of his brother Aldor, who lived ninety-and-nine years and was called the Old. In his time the office of Stedamaegister² was created, and all herds and breeding facilities were inspected for health and quality before being approved for sale or stud. She disapproved heartily when it became law that only if all children born to a Ruler were female could a woman inherit the crown of Rohan. Since the Ruler was expected to be a warrior, and it was argued that the duty of a Queen to bear heirs outstripped any contributions she could make as a Shieldmaid. A King could sire children and yet fight. So the law was made, but Readfah, remembering Brinhaw and the daughters of her house, thought it foolish.

Also in Aldor's time the Rohirrim spread Westward, settling in many a mountain-dale, turning their horses out to graze and grow fat on the plentiful grasses. Families grew prosperous, and for a long time there was peace enough for the majesty of Meduseld, which was the name of Brego's Golden Hall, to influence the art and craftsmanship of their homes, though none other was so large and splendid. In the Westfold, particularly, there were vast holdings, and Readfah sent many horses as gifts to rich and less rich alike, for during this time there were none who were truly poor.

After Aldor, four Kings came and went. Déor, son of Goldwine, ascended to the throne at fifty-five years of age. As a younger son, not expected to become King, he had spent nearly all his time with his own horses and become one of the best riders in the country. But his elder brother died untimely, two years before Goldwine himself. In due time Déor assumed the kingship with all the brash good humor of his forefather Eorl. At this time, far to the West, the long-deserted ring of Isengard was occupied by Dunlendings who resisted all efforts to expel them. In truth, Déor did not think the matter of much importance and was loth to spend men and horses on such a remote outpost that really was still a part of Gondor, and not Rohan. He was all too glad that they had stopped raiding the farms near the border, and seemed to be content with their prize.

Déor's only son, Gram, was much like him - more warrior than ruler at heart - but his grandson, Helm, was quiet and given to deep thought. He despised and distrusted the Dunlendings, and saw no good to come of his grandfather's live-and-let-live policies concerning them. In this way he was much like his mother, Eormena of Westfold, a gentle yet thoroughly practical woman devoted to the service of her people, and much loved. She too, foresaw trouble to come, but kept her counsel.

During this time Readfah seldom went to Edoras, for other cares kept her close to home, and gradually she was forgotten by her mother's people, as she had been many times in the past. And the people of Rohan began once again to fear the Elvish folk, and very few indeed lived in the Wold, and none at all in the Field of Celebrant where Eorl met his death. She lived quite alone now, and her householders' cottages slowly fell into ruin.

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One early Spring, when Gram had been King nearly 10 years, Readfah mounted her new horse, a white mare named Hriðscur³, and left her cottage in the care of her householders to make a long visit to Lothlórien, for many of her friends had decided to take ship into the West. Of her closest friends, few others besides Haldir and his brothers stayed behind. Readfah was stunned when she discovered Ponder among the ones leaving. She tried to dissuade him, but soon realized his heart was already gone. Never had she felt less elflike. She saw, but could not fully understand, the languor of spirit he displayed. He was not sad, he simply didn't care about anything else now.

They tried to talk Readfah into leaving with them, but her heart was still anchored in Middle Earth, and would only consent to travel to the Havens with them. They went slowly - as most of them save Readfah were afoot - singing and laughing with high hearts. They would linger in some pleasant spot for a few days, and the Mortal folk, both Man and Halfling, who got a glimpse of them did not molest them but carried the stories to their children.

"These were no high and mighty Elf-lords, but Woodfolk like us. Their Queen was a merry lass upon a white horse..."

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It was past Midsummer when they came upon the marshes below the quay at Círdan's home. It was the first time most of them had ever beheld the Sea, and they all fell silent. Readfah urged the mare forward and stared for a long time at the relentless dashing of the waters against the cliffs. She had somehow imagined the Sea to be a more peaceful thing. She could not know that these waves were but small; that beyond the Gulf they were higher than trees. She had only seen a part of the Sea at Forochel; a vast sheet of ice only seldom broken with leaden-slow water beneath, not this churning and foaming...not this wholly foreign element that seemed something more to be braved than loved. But the faces of the Elves, though awestruck, were also transfigured by joy.

Círdan himself, he of whom Readfah had heard much but never seen, startled her when he appeared on the path from the cliff above and beyond them. He looks almost like - like Gandalf! It was then she fully realized Gandalf had been neither Man nor Elf, but something beyond both. Círdan was unmistakeably an Elf, but unlike any other she had seen. His hair was the colorless white of a very old man, and he had a beard that swept to his knees. His clothing was that of a laborer; indistinguishable from that of any peasant worker of wood. The leaf-shaped ears and keen grey eyes that held no age and all age at once marked him as Elvenkind. He was as tall as Celeborn, and moved with the same grace, and he was in the fullness of his strength. He was giving some order, and she could see farther up on the beach that timbers had already been cut for the next ship. What a strange calling indeed, thought Readfah. Wait for Elves to come, and send them West. Círdan turned to her as if he read her thought, and a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips, but he did not hail her. He had come forth from his house, built high upon the point jutting out to Sea, and now directed his servants to allow the travelers to go aboard.

Ponder felt certain she would change her mind and leave with them, but she could not be persuaded. Even those few who had intended to accompany Readfah back to the Wood were so struck by the Sea that they regretfully forsook her, leaving her to return alone with loving farewells to their families. She did not find in her heart any blame, but wondered that the Sea did not affect her in the same way as her friends. There was a pull, to be sure, but it was resistable.

She watched as her friends boarded the grey ship that lay alongside the great salt-washed pier, as if they had already entered another world and could no longer see her. But at last they turned as the ship began to drift free from her moorings and they called their goodbyes to her. She sat like a stone, too overcome to do more than raise her hand in farewell.

When they were long out of sight, Readfah composed herself and slid from Hriðscur's back and walked to the edge of the water. The horses stood about uncertainly as she waded forth to where the breakers scattered harmlessly no higher than her knees. She dipped a hand into the water, tasted it with the tip of her tongue, and made a wry face. She looked up and listened to the cries of the gulls wheeling overhead along with the regular booming of the waves. She looked down, at the prints of her feet in the wet sand, and at the tiny fish flickering in the transparent shallows, first there, then gone with the next wave. She found the abandoned shell of some small creature and studied it minutely. For a long time she stroked the satiny, pale blue-tinged interior of the curved shell with a single fingertip. She put it in the pocket of her skirt.

Then she looked long at the house, which seemed to rise of itself of the stones of the cliff. It bore neither tower nor turret, yet wore an aura of long years and majesty. Voices from the past crowded in on her...Gil-galad's home...the Havens...her father...the long years when Elves were many and Men looked out on the world with all the wonder of children. She looked at the house, but did not go in. Summer it was still, but even so she could smell the ripening of Autumn in the air, and there was a long way to go.

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¹"Where are the Horse and the Rider?" LOTR, Chapter 6, TTT, The King of the Golden Hall.

²Stallion Master. Rohirric government official whose responsibility it was to maintain Stud books, and to inspect farms to see that animals were maintained humanely and in good health. By the end of Aldor's reign, the duties were expanded to include appointing assistants (from head trainers to stablehands) and supervision of horsemanship training for the cavalry. In time there were five Stedamaegisters, with the sixth, the Erkenstedamaegister, presiding. He (or she) alone was not appointed by Royal decree, but chosen by the others from among themselves. By tradition the Erkenstedamaegister lived in Edoras and had the additional office of Master of Horse for the Royal family.

³OE/Rohirric "Snowstorm."


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

Author's Notes:  
I think now I may have gotten throuh a literary bottleneck that has plagued me in this story for a long time. Some of the subsequent chapters were written over two years ago, but getting from point A to point B didn't make sense when the time arrived to write about it.  
Those of you who have hung in there so long, thanks for your patience.  
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Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-five

-  
The weather was already turning colder when Readfah arrived at the foothills of the mountains West of Lothlórien; another day at least it would take to reach the Wood. It had been a long time since she had ever traveled so far alone, and she vowed to herself never to do so again. Something bestirred the air as if that of an approaching storm. Unwillingly she thought of the Dark Days and her flight to Forochel. No Orcs had disturbed her as she rode this time, but once out of the Shire, Men seemed fell and suspicious and she was careful to make camp well away from any villages.

Readfah thought of the Shire fondly. The Holbytlan were courteous and respectful of Elves, though even they seemed to be touched by the same unnamed fear that was slowly growing in Middle Earth, so slowly as to be unnoticeable. Still, it was a good place, and its folk desired no more than to live in peace and enjoy the fruit of their labors. She smiled, remembering the ponies she had seen there, cleverer and more resourceful than any full sized horse, and nearly every one understood speech though none spoke themselves.

It was late afternoon, and she urged Hriðscur into a canter as they approached a thickly wooded dell which promised a good place to stop overnight. The other horses followed hard by and slowed to a walk as they entered under the trees. Suddenly the mare pawed the air and whinnied as if something had startled her, and moved forward only reluctantly. Readfah rode deeper into the wood, and she drew her blade from it's sheath. A few more steps, straining to hear more, but whatever it was had gone silent.

"We will not find much rest tonight, I fear," she said aloud. Hriðscur picked her way carefully through the mud and stones of a long disused path, and Readfah looked right and left warily, preparing to gallop at a heartbeat's notice.

Then far up the path she saw a figure coming toward her, quite alone. Uncertain, she willed the mare still and waited. Then, she let out her pent-up breath and smiled.

It was Gandalf.

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"So many years it has been, Mistress Readfah!" he cried as she leaped from her horse and embraced him. "Where have you been and where do you go now?"

She told him the story, and walked with him up the path while the horses crowded around him and pushed at him with their noses, for all good beasts loved him. He patted them and spoke a kind word to each.

"And what of you, Gandalf? It seems you are on my path now, but where have you been?"

"Traveling...seeking news," he said a bit vaguely. "I have been to the Shire, and to Imladris..." he stopped when he saw her face. "I was going to Lothlórien for a while to rest."

He led her to a clearing where he assured her that they would be safe, kindled a small fire, and settled comfortably against a fallen log and filled his pipe. There was enough grass to content the horses, and water to be had not far away. Crickets began their evensong, and the orange glow in the West faded away as they spoke.

"And you have still not wed?" his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"No," she said, the heat rising to her cheeks.

"Whyever not? Surely you could have your choice of any of the fine Men of Rohan?"

She did not tell him that she hadn't been to Edoras in years and that only a few horsemen of the Wold knew her, but she blushed again at his forthright words, and even more so for her reason, which now seemed foolish.

"I was waiting..." Here she lowered her voice as if someone else might hear, "For a Man who would make me feel the way Elrond did."

She waited for him to tease her, but he only looked at her thoughtfully for several moments.

"That may never come to pass, Readfah."

"I am beginning to think you're right. But I cannot wed where I do not love."

He was silent again for an even longer time. Then he spoke thoughtfully.

"I think maybe there is a veil before your eyes. Loving a Man is not very different than loving an Elf, to be sure, but if I may say so the steps are reversed. Elves see the heart first, then are moved to desire, while Men, in some ways for good and some ways for ill, are moved by desire and then learn to see the heart. Of course it's not as simple as all that, for no two Men, or Elves, are the same, but it's quite generally as I say."

Readfah thought for a moment, then murmured, "My father said much the same thing."

"Your father?"

Because she had never hidden anything from him, she told him about Maedhros...from the time so long ago when his anger manifest in her made her threaten the life of Talanzef the Númenorean Horsemaster, to when she would have beheaded Galadriel at Imladris, and then about his most recent and very much different but no less startling visit.

"I had heard much of the tremendous will of Féanor...no doubt his descendants possess it, too. What you tell me is not impossible, yet I have never heard of such a thing 'till now. Your father was right, though. It is somewhat different, and may seem strange to you."

"What is there for me to do, then?"

"Sleep for a while. I shall keep watch, and think a bit."

She lay down on her outspread cloak and was soon asleep, while Gandalf refilled his pipe and gazed into the fire for a long, long while.

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Readfah slept a long time. The Sun was well risen before she stirred to the sound of the horses coming up from watering. Gandalf was behind them, still with a thoughtful expression, and was silent while she rose and shook out her cloak.

"Good morning!" he said at last. "I hope you are well rested!"

"Yes, thank you. I'm afraid I haven't much breakfast to offer..." she said, thinking of the bit of bread and sheep's milk cheese she had left.

He produced a ripe apple from behind his back and offered it to her, and gestured toward a row of apple trees not far off. "That must have been an orchard long ago." He had gathered a few, and now placed them in her bag.

Readfah leaped up onto Hriðscur's back. "Will you ride?" she nodded toward the other horses.

"I suppose I should, but I'm afraid I'm not as gifted a rider as you are. I've never ridden Elf-fashion."

"Bana¹ will carry you," she indicated a quiet dark bay animal. "Do not mind his name, it was given in jest. When he was only a year old he was carrying children about! But one day a fly had been tormenting him and he kicked Regeon instead. It was his first and last kick, he was so ashamed!"

With no command, Bana knelt, and Gandalf swung himself up. The horse turned his head, nodded, and bared his teeth in a good-natured grin.

"See? He too is glad of company!" Readfah laughed. Then her eyes grew even merrier. "I remember the first time you came to Lothlórien. The horse..."

"Ah, you remember! Yes, Luf was a kind creature, and of more worth than he looked. I chanced upon a band of Northmen as I traveled from the Sea-coast. I was afoot and had no coin, so they pitied me and bid me choose a horse. Or I might say allow a horse to choose me. Luf did, and we wandered for many years together. He is buried in Imladris...

"Since that day I have mostly been afoot, except on borrowed horses now and then, such as now," Gandalf stroked Bana's neck. The horse behaved as if it were an honor to carry him.

"It looks as if another has chosen you, Mithrandir!" Readfah laughed, using his Elvish name.

"It seems so, " Gandalf patted the horse again, who stopped and turned his head once more.

"It is a good thing to be Mithrandir's friend," said Bana in a husky Sindarin.

Readfah and Gandalf looked at each other in surprise. "Why, Bana! I have never heard you speak!" Readfah turned to him.

"No, Mistress," he bared his teeth in a grin.

"Will you stay with Mithrandir then?"

Bana nodded and grinned again and moved in beside Hriðscur, who lifted her head. "Shall we be away?" she asked.

Readfah's brow rose. "Another silent one has found speech!"

The horses both swung into a kind of ambling gait, swift as a trot but far smoother. Gandalf remarked on this, and Readfah explained.

"A good many of my horses, mostly of the Eärroch's line, have this pace."

"And who is the Eärroch?"

"He is a stallion, and immortal. He runs wild among my mares. He chooses but few. Eorl's horse, Felaróf, was his son. The Rohirrim prize Felaróf's descendants so highly that only the King may own them. They do not speak, but understand speech, and they live long."

"It is a strange thing," Gandalf said at length. "That an immortal horse should still be in Middle Earth. I am told the Valinorean stallions were the mounts of...your grandfather and his followers."

"Do you suppose that the Eärroch is my father's horse?" she wondered aloud, the idea making her eyes round.

"Think back," advised Gandalf. "Do you remember the horse your father rode?"

"Well, I remember him telling me that all of the horses they brought with them were white or pale grey, for they were all of one line. He called his horse Iya. He was white, like the Eärroch, and his eyes seemed pale like his, but now it has been a long time..."

She turned to Gandalf. "It must be him. To this day the Rohirrim say that the sire of Felaróf was brought by Béma from the West. Those are stories handed down from a time when the Rohirrim knew me well. But now there is a fear growing among Men, and the people who remember me are few."

Readfah reflected a moment. "Then all this time a part of him has been with me...and I thought I had only this," she fingered the curved blade hanging from her belt.

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Galadriel's face wore a serious expression. Almost as soon as Gandalf and Readfah had arrived in Caras Galadon, Gandalf had urged a private conference. Readfah stood a little apart, not sure of what they were talking about, but almost certain it involved her.

She was certain indeed when at last Galadriel seemed to agree with Gandalf, and they turned as one and beckoned to her to follow them to the private glade when Gandalf had first spoken to her so earnestly about the sapphire Ring Elrond held.

Gandalf spoke formally, "Mistress Readfah, you have lived long, suspended in time, robbed of love yet never doing evil"- here Galadriel bowed her head - "I'm not sure what effect this will have, but I deem that the nature of this Ring will bring you something you seek..."

He produced the flame-colored ruby Ring he had long carried. Readfah looked stunned.

"I cannot take that!"

"Nor do I wish you to, but merely hold it in your palm a moment, as you have done Vilya."

Readfah, with a shudder, stretched forth her hand and received the warm golden weight of Narya upon it. The flickering, ember-like glow of the stone drew her eyes into it's heart. For what seemed hours, but was only a moment or two, she stood as one mesmerized until Gandalf gently removed it from her palm. She could have stood there forever, forgetting all else, staring at the ring as one trapped in a beautiful prison one has no desire to leave.

Then Galadriel approached with a light in her hand, but, no! Readfah stood fast as she saw yet another Ring, the stone of this one clear as water yet bright as a star...of all stones Celebrimbor fashioned the most like to a Silmaril of the Three...tiny rainbows danced around it and flew to the other lamps nearby to circle their lesser glow with shimmering colors.

She put out her hand again, and the radiance of Nenya shimmered in her palm. A sudden weariness came over her as she felt her own smallness in the fashion of the world. How had Galadriel borne this beautiful, mighty thing so long? How had any of them, indeed, borne the Rings without succumbing to the temptation of closing themselves off behind a wall and just staring at them for a lifetime? She thought of the day she had, so briefly, touched Vilya. So ignorant had she been that she mistook it's great, pulsing power for her joy that Elrond had returned. Though Nenya was the most startlingly beautiful, and Narya the most comforting, it was Vilya that held the greatest gift of strength and promise, and was in its way the most powerful of the Three.

Only after Galadriel gently retrieved Nenya from her hand did Readfah become aware that Gandalf was speaking. "...save Celebrimbor who made them, only you of all creatures in Middle Earth have seen and touched all Three of the Elven Rings of Power. Though you do not possess them, it is our hope that their gifts will help you."

It was true...neither Gandalf nor Galadriel nor Elrond had ever touched any of the Rings they did not possess, and Gil-galad only one. What the result of this singularity would be was beyond her sight.

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The following Spring, Readfah noted with satisfaction that her herds had prospered finely and that the foals born in the especially fertile Spring three years ago were waxing strong as they came of age. But there were too many. The trade routes that passed the Wold were now seldom used, and she decided to make a trip into Edoras itself, though it had now been many years since she had done so. Déor had been King then, and troubles in the Westfold had kept her from meeting him. Later, from a handful of Dalesmen traveling North from Rohan, she heard rumors of Gram, Déor's son, abdicating. She was not certain what she would find when she arrived, but surely, the influx of so many fine horses would be as welcome as it always had been.

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¹Bana -"killer." 


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

Author's Notes:  
This chapter and part of the next, or at least the bones of them, have actually been written (in a notebook!) for a few years as part of a short story I was playing with. Integrating it into Readfah's story proved much harder, but it is done at last. I hope my loyal fans will let me know what they think of this latest development.  
Happy 2008!  
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Mother of Horsemen - Chapter Twenty-six

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Now Eormena of Westfold died, and Gram King fell ill with grief. He took to his bed for weeks, speaking to no one. Those who knew him knew of his great love for his Queen and sadly predicted that he would soon follow her, but though he grew thin and silent, he did not die at last. He had, however, weakened and he grew weary easily, and so he thought it best to leave the governance of Rohan to his eldest child and only son. Helm was reluctant to so early assume the kingship, but he was well respected in the Mark and called King from the day Gram left the crown in his hands. In his hands, for Helm refused any ceremony until his father was dead.

Helm himself had two young sons, Haleth and Hama. So much alike were they that they seemed like twins, but Haleth, at eleven, was by two years the elder. Their mother, Maevi, had died accidentally, or so it was said, at the hands of Dunlendish hunters while she rode with some of her women to inspect a mountainside dairy a few miles West of Edoras. Helm had loved her dearly, and neither forgot nor ever forgave her killers, though they were not at last found guilty of any crime and so went free. Yet, he was known throughout the kingdom for his unflappable demeanor and the scrupulous fairness of his policies. He rarely smiled.

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When Readfah heard still further rumor of Gram's abdication, and that there was indeed a new King, she made ready to ride to Edoras at once. Until a few years ago she had had many traders interested in her animals, but now, visitors waned as the roads grew more perilous, while the horses waxed in the safety of the shadows of the Wood, and she judged it was a good time to give some away. Over five hundred warhorse prospects, broodmares with well-grown foals at foot, and fine stallions followed her out of the Wold and on to the road South.

It was a leisurely journey, for there was no hurry. The mid-Autumn weather was bright, clear and cool, and Readfah stopped often to enjoy the painted glory of the forest, like polished gold and jewels against an almost storm-dark blue sky. When she crossed the narrows of the Entwash, she could smell the leaves changing, and sometimes the scent of distant fires where farmers were burning the spent vines and stalks of the gardens and fields. She knew that the farm wives would be preparing huge amounts of food and the young ones would be making merry in anticipation of the greatest festivals of the year.

But when she neared the road leading into the city, where the Golden Hall shone in the late afternoon sun like a beacon at the summit of the hill, she was approached and called to account by three outriders bearing the Royal arms on their green tabards. Her horses lowered their heads to graze, and prudently she pulled the hood of her tunic over her head, which they took for a gesture of modesty.

"May a horse trader not ride freely in the Riddermark?" she chided with arched brow."Or perhaps you were hoping I would give you first choice of my fine herd?"

A young Captain with hair as red as hers blushed at that, for he had been visibly impressed with Readfah's white mare. He had seen many other splendid animals as he approached her and in truth wished that it could be so.

"His Majesty has commanded all strangers be brought before him, Madam." Then his eyes widened as he looked around him.

"How many horses have you, Madam?"

"Does the King wish to know if his visitors are wealthy?" Readfah asked, examining her fingernails.

The young man choked at that, and his companions chuckled at his discomfort.

"N-nay, Madam!" then lowering his voice, he added "I - I only wondered if you herded them all here by yourself." When she nodded, he looked amazed.

She looked up and saw for the first time the crimson sigil on his tunic, and she smiled. Without answering, she turned her face to the herd, and a fine chestnut colt, two years old and born to be a warhorse, threw up his head and came toward them.

"He is yours," she said, a bit startled at the frightening shade of red his face had become. "Now take me to your King before the Sun sets."

The others had grown silent. They legged their horses into a trot, not noticing, or perhaps fearing to notice, two other horses leaving the herd to join them.

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"Bring her to me," was the quiet command from the shadows behind the throne. Readfah walked the familiar steps to the seat of Kings, flanked by the two young guardsmen. The ranks of pillars, each topped with a horse's head carved in stone above a flickering sconce, seemed to her as ordered rows of warhorses awaiting battle. But only she of all left alive remembered the days when they were set in this long hall, along with the great, ornate golden frames surrounding the high, narrow windows and every door. Each of these was surmounted with yet more horse's heads, all lavishly leafed in gold, with ears laid back, manes erect, necks arched, and teeth bared in fury.

The great tapestry of Eorl the Young still hung in a place of honor halfway to the dais, candles flaring before it. Little worn by time, it hung in mute reverence to Rohan's first King, and Readfah's dear friend. Alive still he looked, mounted upon Felarof, lifting his great horn, bright hair rippling in the wind. As Readfah passed, tears sprang to her eyes which she hastily brushed away as they approached the throne. There behind the great carven seat hung another great tapestry, a white horse rampant on a field of deep emerald; the arms of the House of Eorl, which she had seen made.

A tall figure, as tall as any Readfah had ever seen in her long life, stood beside the throne, half turned from the light. His powerful neck and shoulders were huge - as were his arms and hands - and rippled slowly as he moved. It hardly seemed possible they belonged on a man...a bull, perhaps. He was much like a bull - slow, deliberate, even languid - still, just underneath the skin, another beast lay twitching; asleep, yet dangerous to the core. His bright, wheaten hair was almost mane-like, shaggy from forehead to crown, the rest braided in the warrior fashion that had not changed since the days when the Riddermark was named. Dozens of plaits swept back from his face and hung to his hips.His right ear bore the piercing of a wedded man, but it held only the black horsehair loop of the widower. His legs were long and thick with saddle muscles, and she could only imagine the size of the horse he must ride. His beard was cropped close, and he had the strong chin, long jaw and the high, sharp cheekbones common to the Westfoldmen.

When he turned to face her, as she mounted the three steps before him, she was drawn to look at his eyes; deepset, unsmiling, the blue of a winter sky. Then, unabashedly, they crawled minutely over her body, and his finely sculpted lips parted a hairsbreadth. For a moment her knees weakened, and this confused her, for she had for ages now only associated that response with fear.

Helm was not a young man, but he looked younger than his near twoscore years. He was clad in unrelieved black, as were most of the household, out of respect for the late Queen. He wore no coronet, nor any badge or device of rank, yet had the great Hall been filled with men all in black, Readfah would have unhesitatingly picked him out as King.

"Leave us," the deep yet soft voice spoke again, his mouth barely moving. The guards backed away silently. He stepped closer to her, and brought his eyes back to hers.

"My Captains tell me," he began without preamble, "that they found you riding into the vale of Entwash with a half-thousand horses. Who sent you here?"

"I came on my own."

"You traveled alone? That is dangerous for a woman." The suspicion had left his tone to be replaced with concern.

"I have been safe enough in the Riddermark in the past."

Suddenly he seemed to realize she was speaking unaccented Rohirric, and he peered even more closely at her.

"It would be safe indeed, if only men of the Mark rode free within our bounds," he said, with a trace of bitterness. "But too many have come who seek only to profit...to fatten their cattle and horses on our lands and return to their homes with more than a few of our own beasts, to make jest, no doubt, about what blind fools we are." He turned his eyes to hers once more. "But I tell you, Mistress, they haven't fooled us since my grandsire sat here, nor will they."

There was a long silence. "But you are no Dunlendish thief, I warrant. A thief scarcely dares to ride openly into the City, instead of away from it, with the spoils near to hand. Nor are the women of that land so fair."

She cleared her throat to cover her sudden blush. "The horses, some of them, are a gift for you," she said. "It has always been my custom to bring horses to the Kings of the Mark."

She had thought nothing could disturb his placid expressionlessness, but his fine gold brows rose perceptibly and pinpoints of light kindled in his eyes.

" 'Kings' of the Mark? You can't be older than I am! What is your name?"

"I am Readfah."

From long experience she waited for the doubtful words, the disbelieving laughter, or the blank look of non-recognition. She blinked in surprise when he stepped closer, lifted and drew back her hood with his great hands and let it drop.

"Bema..." he whispered.

He stared for a moment, taking in the wealth of dark red hair braided much like his own, and the softly pointed tips of her ears just barely peeking through, then backed away a pace, and knelt before her with head lowered. The last man of the Mark to do that had been Donnic, Eorl's elder kinsman.

"Your servant, Modoreotheodias," he said simply.

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Readfah felt as if time had rolled back, to a day when Men and Elves dwelt together, if not always in harmony then at least mutual understanding. She was so fascinated, listening to him speak learnedly and quite accurately of tales in which she had had part, she scarcely noticed where they were going. In Rohan there was no rigid court etiquette to observe, and the King could go where he would without entourage. So, as they turned to the lane leading away from the hall, his men looked at each other, uncertain, until Helm signaled to them.

"Have rooms prepared," he ordered, then looking at her with a look that was almost merry. "The ones abovestairs from my own. And an extra cover beside my own at table." This was nothing unusual, but his servants could not know that the rooms he had ordered were the very ones Readfah had always occupied when she visited Edoras from the day the Golden Hall was completed.

"How is it that you seem to know me, and yet none other?" she asked as they walked slowly through the center of the city with two of his gentlemen at a discreet distance behind. Little had changed since she was here last, and she found herself commenting, with an air of familiarity, on this or that structure as they passed.

"When I was a boy I paid heed to my lessons and learned to read and write." He stopped beside a public horse-trough, dipped his finger in a few times to scrawl his name in Feanorian characters on the flat, porous stones that edged it. "As you likely know, except for old runes carved on swords and tombs we are mostly an unlettered people, but our Kings, at least, have always been required to be somewhat literate." Here he smiled a peculiar half smile, as though thinking of something that did not altogether please him. "The education of most of our young people begins and ends with horses, and our history. Those in charge of our granaries and dairies have some use for mathematics, you know...weights, measures and the like, but not much more. At any rate, while your stories were being told as tales to amuse us as children, I considered you history."

"But why? I mean, if no one else believed in me..."

He stopped and looked at her intently. "Because the stories made sense. Other heroes of other tales were shadowy figures painted by imagination and the stories varied with the teller, but though some called you a daughter of Bema and others the daughter of an elf, you were always a woman with blood red hair, deathless, like us and yet not like. What manner of letters are these," he gestured, "and why did we know them even before the Gondorrim showed them to us? We have little or no dealings with the Deathless Ones in the Wood above the Wold, yet we use their writing and some of our words are like to their own. Well, the stories have Readfah teaching two of our long-fathers to read and write! Other stories have you teaching our people more about horses than any other family of Mortal Men; how to breed them, how to care for them, the bonding tradition where the horse must choose his master. Why are so many of our horses pied and roaned, more white than dark? Because of old we kept to the prairies rather than the woods, and this Readfah knew, and gave us horses better camouflaged in the speckled shrubberies and grasses of our fields." He turned to her and took her hands.

"And now you have come, and told me your name, and you know this city well though I have never seen you before. I knew the tales were true. Come, I want you to see this."

She followed him to a large stone fountain, fed by a spring. The water filled a mossy bowl which spilled into a channel and meandered it's way down the hillside to join a larger brook. The fountain was surmounted by a carven niche on a level with Helm's head. Inside appeared to be a small, oddly shaped figure also of stone.

"My great grandfather was given that stone when he was a young man. He was told an old woman carried it from the North when Eorl brought our people to Rohan. Father gave it to me and I had it set here when my first son was born. Look at it closely."

Then she saw it. Though much weathered and worn, it was the same figure, or one very like it, that she had seen on her travels with Ux and his companions so long ago. A woman on a horse, her hand raised, though the details were indistinct now. Readfah was so moved she could not speak, and when he saw her tears he could not forbear to gently embrace her, heedless of the stares of his men and of the passersby, till she composed herself.

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The rich smells of roasting mutton, baked vegetables and fresh bread filled Readfah's nostrils as they returned to Meduseld, and reminded her that she had taken nothing since the night before. The evening shadows had grown long and dinner was being taken off the spits. They walked through a short passageway and down two steps into the dining hall, which rivaled the throne room in size if not grandeur. Tall, narrow windows flanked each side, plank tables stood about in no particular order, save that the King's table stood on a dais one step above the rest at the head of the room. The King's court, his nobles, officers and their wives and older children were already there, waiting. Helm offered Readfah his arm and escorted her to a place beside him.

The lower ranking soldiers, who dined separately with their men, watched silently as the strange woman mounted the dais with their King. They alone had seen that Readfah was no ordinary woman. Helm called for attention, introduced her as the "kind lady from the North who has brought to Rohan a mighty gift of horses" and gave himself the trouble of seeing to it personally that she was seated comfortably and served with a flagon of ale before even himself.

The Men of the Mark had never done anything by halves, and the cheers that greeted the King's short speech were deafening. Readfah had only heard rumor of the Dunlendish raids on the Rohirric herds until this day; she could not know how timely was her arrival or how appropriate her gift.

Across the dais sat the King's sister and her family. Hild was a tall and handsome woman who greeted Readfah warmly but studied her with undisguised curiosity. Like her brother, she had pale blue eyes and wheaten hair, but her braids were woven in an intricate pattern with black ribbons down her back. Readfah had never paid much attention to fashion before, but she couldn't help but notice that the women's clothes were more refined than she had ever seen them.

Hild wore a simple yet stunning black silk gown. Had Readfah come any other time that gown might well have been livened with gold braid and lace, or more likely she would have seen the hall alive with color, for the women all had silks, linens, velvets and fine cottons of corn-yellows, pale roses, soft greens and sky blues as well as the deeper shades affected in winter. But even in mourning, Helm's court could not seem too somber, for the fair heads, blue eyes and ruddy complexions about her made that impossible. Beside them, Readfah felt almost dull. She stole a glance at her own dress, and her only thought was thankfulness that it was dark enough not to stand out.

Unlike the loose tunics and breeches she had worn since she was a girl and still wore for work, this one was of elf-make; warm brown velvet edged with tiny golden leaves, meticulously tailored and cut to fit, with a matching cloak and hood lined in heavy emerald silk. Her glistening leather boots were of the same brown, lined in soft doeskin. With her deep red hair and sea-colored eyes she looked the very spirit of Autumn. Many years ago, when Eorl was still living, a Rohirric seamstress had designed a gown that looked like a fine dress when the wearer walked, but disguised, with a long peplum waist and cleverly turned pleats and drapery, a split that allowed the wearer to ride comfortably.

Readfah, as the friend of a king, decided it might be a good idea to have at least one real dress for court visits, and had one made of smoky grey finewool with bright yellow facings. She liked it, for it accomplished with finest needlework and a bit of color what many a more elaborate gown failed to do with billows, ruffles and yards of lace, and that was to look well and be comfortable. She liked it so much that she had others made now and again - some in Rohan and some in Lothlorien - from the same pattern with differing details, fabrics and colors as her whim and the season dictated. The ladies of Rohan eagerly adopted the riding gown, for they had not (except for the most formal of ceremonies such as riding to her wedding or to a coronation) adopted the woman's saddle popular with noblewomen of Gondor, which allowed a lady to wear the most elegant and sweeping of gowns ahorse. Readfah had seen one of those saddles and thought it the silliest of inventions, remarking in her blunt fashion that if one wished to sit on a parlor bench in one's best dress then one had better do so and not try riding. (1)

When she had satisfied herself that she made no untoward appearance, she turned her attention to Helm's sons, who were late coming back from a horse fair at Snowbourn with their governess's family, and who ran to the dais to greet their father and to stare at Readfah with undisguised curiosity. When he introduced her, Haleth and Hama looked at each other and before much more time had passed they were talking to her excitedly and as confidently as if they had known her all their lives. They seemed to be singularly unamazed that Readfah was real (2), and it was evident that their father spent much time with them.

Each King of the Mark had obviously had his own personality, and the tenor of their households usually reflected it. But not since Eorl's day had any been so lively, in spite of Helm's own passionless demeanor and their present sorrow at Eormena's passing. Readfah could not help thinking of Gil-galad, and how, though he commanded the greatest respect, could never have been said to rule a somber House, try as many of the Exiles might to make it a House "fitting" for one so exalted. Listening to the boys' chatter she thought of what a father Gil-galad would have made...should have made, as she should have been a mother, and suddenly into the path of her memories stepped a tall half-elf with Moon-silver eyes and a regal, graceful stride...

She was jolted back to the present when she looked up to see Helm's eyes upon her with a thoughtful expression, but then he averted his gaze and took another draught of ale. And when the young princes finally settled down to eat, the men and women around her soon distracted her with eager questions about the new horses. She did not notice when he again turned his eyes to her, and kept them there until long after the meal ended and he called servants to light her to the guest chambers.

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(1) "Anyone who is concerned with his dignity would be well advised to keep away from horses"  
- Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh

(2) The equivalent would be a modern child discovering that there really is a Santa Claus.


End file.
